


Easement

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Pain, Doctor Peter, Doctor Peter Hale, Doctor/Patient, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Pain, Pre-Slash, Serial Killers, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Werewolf Healing, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It wasn't where Peter wanted to end up after finishing his medical training; he would have much preferred an emergency room or even a maternity ward, instead of a <i>pain clinic</i>. His most frequent patients were teenagers with hangovers, women too shy to admit they were cramping, and perhaps the strangest of all – pain drain addicts, the people who'd gotten so used to have every minor ache and pain leeched from their bones that they mistook merely being alive as a great discomfort.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Stiles is in pain, he goes to Peters office for relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Peter looked out over the wretched dregs that stumbled their way into his clinic. It wasn't where he wanted to end up after finishing his medical training; he would have much preferred an emergency room or even a maternity ward, instead of a _pain clinic_. They weren't supposed to call it that, the term Easement Center was used on all official documents, but pain clinic was a more accurate representation of what it was. Originally set up to offer relief to the elderly and those with minor aches and pains drugs wouldn't, or couldn't cure; now it attracted a very different sort of clientele.

His most frequent patients were teenagers with hangovers, women too shy to admit they were cramping, and perhaps the strangest of all – pain drain addicts, the people who'd gotten so used to have every minor ache and pain leeched from their bones that they mistook merely being alive as a great discomfort. Perhaps for them it was.

"Stiles Stilinski, you're next," he said, glancing up from the chart. Whoever had written it had gone the extra mile of adding his nickname between the last name and his middle initial; a good thing too, because Peter wouldn't have been able to pronounce it.

A boy sitting at the end of the row of chairs looked up from where his head rested on his knees and blinked away a mess of watery tears. His hair was unbrushed and Peter distinctly remembered him staggering through the doorway with his hands pressed against his temple. He looked like he might actually be in pain, not like the others in the lobby who grimaced at their own uninjured hands or legs- wherever their imaginary wound was located. If Peter was lucky, he might actually find a living, writhing, culture, of agony within his body.

It wasn't that he liked feeling pain, he just didn't like lying. He didn't like fakers. He didn't like people who came to him and paid hundreds of dollars out of pockets to resolve a _sniffle_. He didn't like the weak. He wanted to help someone who needed it, not someone who wanted it.

The boy slugged forward and winced as though the very action of picking himself up from the chair sent fire through his nerves. He dragged himself forward with his arms hugged around his torso, and his feet dragging on the tiled floors.

"Step into my office," he instructed as he held the door open for the whimpering thing.

The boy did as he was told and immediately crawled onto the plastic covered table. Peter knew from numerous complaints that the pillows provided weren't actually all that comfortable, but the boy didn't seem to even register their presence as he curled in on himself like a dying dog.

"What seems to be the problem?" He asked, growing more and more intrigued. If 'Stiles Stilinski' was a faker, he was the best Peter had ever seen. If he wasn't he looked like he should have been in an emergency room, not a quick 'drain-and-done' operation like his. 

"M-my head," he croaked, "and my stomach." His brow eyes closed and he tucked his head down so his chin rested on his chest.

"I see," Peter mused, deciding the best way to go about it. He could drain from anywhere on Stiles body, but it was quicker and more effective if he did it close to the site of the distress.

He settled for the nape of his neck; it was close to both his head and stomach, and he wouldn't have to go winding his palm through layers of cloth to get to it. He found the skin surprisingly cold when he placed his hand on it. The boy shuddered and took a deep breath.

Peter dug his fingertips into the tender flesh and started to leech what he could.

Stiles shoulder muscles tensed and went lax as the black veins crept up Peters' arm. His fingers that tightly dug into his blood red hoodie relaxed and let up on the abused clothing.

The pain that filtered into Peters fingertips wasn't just a culture, but a _cesspool_. A massive black beast of misfiring nerves, screaming muscle tissue, and howling bones. He felt like he'd been hit by a car and was barely clinging on. He gasped and yanked his hand away.

"You need emergency medical help," he said. "I'll call the-"

"No!" the boy shook his head and rolled onto his back. His hand clasped onto Peters'. He was more lively now that the worst if it was gone. He wiped the last few splotches of wet from his cheeks. "I'm okay," he insisted.

"You don't feel okay. You should be crying and screaming and begging for a doctor; not sitting in a waiting room with addicts and whiny teenagers. You need _serious_ help."

"I'm getting serious help." Stiles propped himself up on his elbows and shook a few stray hairs from his eyes. The dark chocolate irises looked up at him like a puppy.

"I- I have a blood disorder. I take medicine for it, but it's really painful. If I go to the doctor they just ply me with thousand dollar medications and tell me to come back for a refill in a month. The medications help the pain, but they make me nauseous and slow. I'm not in pain but I can't think, I can't eat, I can barely breathe without wanting to throw up. They won't give me a prescription to come here because it's not seen as a 'necessity.' Please . . . please just help me." The fingers around his wrist squeezed, and then they let go. 

He dropped back down against the table. His eyes were so heavy and worn, he looked like he might have fallen asleep right then and there. The anesthetic properties of his healing ability had a little bit of a euphoric side effect, but this seemed more than that; it seemed like it was the first moment of peace Stiles had had in a very, very long time.

“It's not going to work for very long, you've got maybe an hour or so. Medication would be stronger, last longer, perhaps cheaper?” 

Stiles shook his head. "Trust me when I say this is a lot better than those shitty medications. I haven't felt this clear-headed in _months_.” 

Peter stared down at him. ". . . Alright," he agreed. This time, he put his hand against Stiles' cheek and let the remaining pain flush through him. “So long as you understand this is only temporary.” 

Stiles practically moaned in relief.

When it was all over and nothing was left to take Peter gently brought him up to his feet. He couldn't help but to run his fingers through the boys tangled hair and smooth out some of the rougher edges.

"Thank you," Stiles said with genuine gratitude in his voice. It was perhaps the first time someone had thanked Peter for doing his job.

Peter smiled. "You're welcome."

“If I come back tomorrow-” 

“I won't deny you,” he said waving him off. “Come back when you need too, just don't make a habit of it. The last thing I need is one more person coming in for every little paper cut.” He tried to sound cold, but it was hard with such adoring and gracious eyes watching him. 

“Thank you, again,” Stiles said as he stood up from the table. He gave a meek little smile as he stretched his arms above his head and yawned. The bags around his eyes were still present, as was the thin layer of sweat that coated his skin, but he carried himself with an ease he hadn't possessed before. 

As Peter watched him leave he found himself hoping the boy would come back again.

Then he turned to the next man in line whose only ailment was a splinter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the updated tags, thank you!

“I am in incredible pain,” said Ms. Montigo. Her mascara-laden eyes fixated on her cell phone screen as she sat on the exam bed. Her time in the waiting room was spent moaning unrealistically with the back of her palm pressed to her forehead. She even offered up a few fake whimpers as she was led into the examination area. Her hair was cut to her ears and dyed an unnatural shade of blonde that even the sun would find ostentatious. 

Peter was of the impression she spent most of her weekends berating sales staff.

“Really?” Peter asked, “because I can't feel anything.” His palm lay flat on her shoulder, but nothing came to him. He searched for the pain but there was nothing to find. The marks that traveled from his hand to his elbow were dull gray. It was like trying to sip sand through a straw.

“Yes,” the woman said with a snort. “It's in my shoulder. It's terrible. You just need to _try harder_. Maybe you've just gone numb?” 

It took all of Peter's willpower not to roll his eyes; he knew what she was really after. 

Ms. Montigo didn't want pain relief, she wanted sedation. She wanted all the happy buzzing feelings that came along with getting drained without enduring anything to deserve it. He missed back when it was still legal to reject these kinds of people, but pain was subjective and not easily quantified.

Instead of a snide remark or condescending chuckle he granted the woman a soft smile. “Well, I'd hate to think I've gone _numb_.” He clenched his hand around her shoulder. His fingertips dug into the spray tanned flesh.

“Ow!” the woman jumped, her phone clattering to the floor as she unwillingly released it. Her head whipped back to glare at him.

“Oh, there it is,” Peter purred. “My mistake. _Such_ pain you've been dealing with.” His veins went black as the minuscule shock was wiped from her body in less than a second. He felt a bit of sadistic delight in seeing the light purplish bruise in the shape of his fingers against her shoulder. At least now when she came back he'd actually have something to take.

The woman opened her mouth, but before she could speak a knock on the door interrupted them.

“Doctor Hale?” the young blonde receptionist poked her head inside the room. “There's a boy named Stiles here to see you. He doesn't look very good.” Her red lips were set in a concerned frown.

Peter nodded. “Thank you, Erica. Tell him I'll be with him in a second.”

She slipped out easily behind the door again. It was barely closed before Ms. Montigo launched into her complaint. 

“You hurt me.”

Peter looked down at her and thought of Stiles. Stiles, who was likely curled up in his waiting room, whining pathetically as his body tortured him. He flexed his fingers as the memory of electricity coursing through them as he dug into the human boys nape. 

The housewife flipped her blonde hair behind her ear, sending a spray of strawberry scented perfume in his direction. She had likely never suffered a splinter without swallowing down vodka and codeine. 

His eyes narrowed into slits. “Oh? Would you like me to-?” he could hear his own sadistic inflection as his nails lightly grazed the unprotected skin.

The woman jerked her arm away from his outstretched fingers.

“No!” She collected her phone from the floor and swung her bag over her shoulder. She stalked from the room with a high-footed gait that made certain she would not be stepping foot back in his office again. Peter followed to make sure she actually followed through with payment, certain she was the type who would try to slip away and feign ignorance later.

The pungent aroma of a dozen or so crowded humans plugged up his nostrils as the door into the waiting room opened.

It wasn't hard to pick out Stiles from among them. He sat in the far back, slumped against a chair. His eyes were just as red-rimmed and broken as they'd been the first time they'd met. He was hunched over himself with his arms stuck between his legs and his head drooping against his chest. His breaths were heavy and uneven.

“Stiles,” Peter spoke loudly. “Come with me.”

The boy lifted his head and wiped away the droplets that clung to his lashes. His lips formed what might have been a smile, but was contorted into a sudden grimace. He picked himself up with jerking motions and slugged towards the door. A few of the patients who'd been waiting longer cast him dark looks. It didn't matter, Deucalion could take care of those ones, he had better patience anyway.

He led Stiles back into his office where the smell was mildly better. He kept the room immaculate and doused in citrus-scented cleaning product, not only for sanitation but to give his nose a welcome reprieve from the stale scent of body sweat and various perfumes and colognes. At least they didn't have the underlying woodsy musk that wolves carried.

Stiles stumbled along behind him, bumping into the wall a few times as he was led down the narrow white hallway. Peter took him by the elbow to prevent unnecessary damage to his body as they made their way to his exam room.

“Please tell me you didn't walk here,” Peter said. He pushed Stiles towards the exam table and quickly grabbed some soap from beside the sink and squirted a generous amount onto his hands.

“No, I took the bus.” Stiles said, the old tremble back in his voice. He climbed on top of the table and lay down, resting his head against one of the plastic-covered pillows. “I missed my stop though, so I had to walk some of the way.” He groaned and put his hands over his eyes.

Knowingly, Peter turned the dial on the light switch to take the brightness down a few notches. Stiles mumbled his thanks.

“Next time take a cab.” He slathered the lavender liquid onto his skin and rinsed thoroughly in the sink.

“Don't you have other patients you should be taking care of first?” His body twitched like a cockroach choking on pesticide.

“My other patients aren't going to keel over at any second. You smell absolutely wretched today, Stiles.”

“Ugh, I feel wretched.” The boy's shoulders hunched up around his throat. 

“That's why you take priority. Mr. Jensen's stubbed toe can wait another five minutes.”

“There's a man with a stubbed toe out there? That's a crime,” Stiles closed his eyes. “That's worse than childbirth and whatever it is I'm feeling put together.”

Peter tsk'd. “Even still, I'd rather get my least obnoxious patient taken care of first. 

“Where is it bothering you today?”

“It's still in my head. It feels like I've been shot.”

“What about your stomach? Last time you were here you said it hurt there, too.”

Stiles chuckled. “I'd have to actually have something in my stomach for it to hurt. I feel as hollow as a chocolate bunny.”

“Strange analogy,” Peter said as he placed his palm back on Stiles nape.

“I'm hungry,” the boy shrugged. “Food's all I can think about. I just can't keep anything down, it hurts too much to actually get up and make something, and even if I do eat I'll just throw it back up again.”

“Why didn't you come sooner, then? It's been almost three days.” He felt a strange pang of pity and concern. For some reason, the thought of Stiles sitting in his home, curled in on himself, with the lights off and no food or water nearby- he shook the thoughts from his head. Somewhere deep within his wolf snarled protectively. 

“You told me not to make a habit of it, remember? I was trying to do that whole 'be strong,' shtick, and not rely on some werewolf guy to coddle me all better. 

I've seen the way you look at the other patients,” his hands fell away from his face as he squinted one eye open. “You don't seen too fond of them.”

Peter scoffed. “I'm not fond of people who go crying each time they get a booboo and want someone to make it all better. I have no issue with young boys who can't walk four blocks without crying in pain.”

“It was eight blocks, actually,” Stiles mumbled. He looked up at the werewolf with an unusual expression, something between humor and defense. 

Peter dug his fingertips into Stiles nape and started to leech his pain. He didn't have to seek out the discomfort, it was already there lying in wait under every inch of skin. His veins turned the darkest shade of black and expanded as it all traveled into his body so suddenly.

It was just as stinging and sharp as he'd remembered; a violent torrent of distress that never ceased. He shuddered as the ghost of pain entered through him.

Stiles' head lolled sleepily against the pillow. “Oh god,” he said in a breathless whisper.

With his free hand, Peter stroked some strands of sweaty hair from Stiles' eyes. He realized he still wore the same hoodie as before; whether he'd taken it off to wash it or just kept it on permanently he didn't know. It smelled like he hadn't bothered to change, but with the way he was sweating any attempt to keep it clean seemed futile. 

Stiles went limp as the last of the pain drained from his thin and underfed body. Like a bowl of ice cream, he melted on the table. He let out a little yawn and rolled his shoulders. 

The dark lines on Peter's arm disappeared. He continued to massage the boy's nape as his eyes drifted closed. 

“When was the last time you slept?” he asked softly.

“I slept last night.” Stiles sat up onto his elbows and blinked the exhaustion from his eyes.

“For how long?”

“I don' 'member. Couple of hours, maybe?”

“Why don't you take the next twenty minutes to catch up on your sleep? I'll come wake you in a bit.”

Stiles looked at him skeptically – a hard expression to manage when he could barely keep himself propped upright. “Don't you need the room to, I dunno, examine patients or something?”

“There are other exam rooms I can use, I just like this one because it's the furthest away. Get some rest now, Stiles.” He gently coaxed him into laying his head back down on the pillow. 

“You are the best person I have ever met,” Stiles said as he lay his head down. A sleepy smile appeared on his face. 

“I'm glad someone appreciates me.” Peter winked and removed his hand from between the boys head and pillow. 

“I appreciate the fuck out of you.”

Peter laughed. “Goodnight, Stiles,” he whispered as he flicked off the light switch and left Stiles to his dreams and his much-needed rest.

*

“Now who is this lovely darling?” Deucalion asked, cocking his head to one side. His usual friendly smile was plastered on his face like a mask that hid all of the cynicism that made his brain their home. 

Peter couldn't judge – he didn't have any optimism left either. 

He wiped his mouth and lowered his fork. 

“His name is Stiles.”

The subject of their conversation still lay prone on the table. His arms had shifted position to curl against his chest in a happily slumbering ball. 

Deuc's hand reached out towards the boy's emotionless face.

“ _Don't_ touch him,” Peter warned with a flash of his eyes. “I mean it.”

“Did you have an accident, Peter?” Deuc asked with a condescending tut. His hand dropped back down to his side as he turned to look at his friend. 

Peter leaned back in his chair. “No, he's just sleeping.” He idly poked his fork back into the takeout container.

“He's been 'sleeping' for over two hours. I wouldn't blame you, you know? Sometimes it's hard to tell where the limit lies, especially when they just keep talking, and talking. 'It hurts, it hurts,' they say.” Deucs' friendly smile wavered into something more sadistic and predatory. He raised his hand again and extended the sharp, black tips. “So you just keep draining and draining. Then suddenly they've gone limp and you think you've done a good job because they're just so relaxed and quiet. A few minutes after that they're as cold as ice and, well . . . they don't talk so much after _that_.”

He looked back at Peter, his claws receded back into his skin. 

He waited, as if for a confession. “Have something you'd like to get off your chest, Deuc?”

“Oh no,” the blonde shook his head. “Purely hypothetical, I am a professional after all. Just letting you know I'd be here for you.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. He dug his fork into the white paper box and lifted the morsel of rice to his lips. He hoped he would actually be able to finish his lunch before Deuc talked him to death. 

“So what's wrong with him? Cancer kid? Terminal illness?”

“No, if he were terminal he'd have a nice prescription to one of those fancy spa clinics up north; he wouldn't be paying out of pocket at a place like this.”

“So what's wrong with him then?”

Peter put his fork down. “He says it's a blood disorder.”

“I'm sensing a but,” Deucalion practically sang.

“ _But_ ,” Peter sighed, “the pains in his head and his side. It's everywhere, to be honest, but that's where it centralizes.”

“How curious,” Deucalion purred. He edged closer to Stiles. One of his slender hands hooked around the bottom of his sweatshirt and started to lift up the scarlet material. He was only stopped by the elbows that pinned the boy's clothes to his body. 

Peter's eyes flashed dangerously. “Leave him alone, Deuc. I mean it.”

Deuc rolled his eyes and dropped the cloth. “I was only curious. It's a little refreshing to see you've developed a soul, although this isn't quite what I meant when I said you should get a house pet.”

“Forgive me for showing a little bit of sympathy to the one boy in this place who isn't faking.”

“You're forgiven. Now I believe it's about time for us to return to the weak and woeful, hm?” He clicked his tongue and furrowed his brow for a moment in distaste. “We've deprived them of sanctity long enough.”

Peter locked the door behind them when they left. 

* 

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked the sleepy boy when he woke up half an hour later.

Stiles eyes squinted open at first, blinking away the bleariness and the grogginess that had overtaken his vision.

“I feel . . . good, actually.” He blinked again and sat up. “I actually feel good?” He looked down at his hands and spread his fingers. His eyes were suspicious as he wiggled them back and forth, as if he expected them to explode with pain any second. “My head hurts, my throat is parched, but I don't want to cry.”

“Well, that sounds like a mild improvement,” Peter said, although in the back of his mind he wondered what sort of horrid living condition Stiles had become accustomed too if dehydration and disorientation felt good.

“Ugh.” Stiles groaned and wrapped his arms over his stomach. “I still feel like I could eat a fucking cow though.”

“Well I don't have any cows, but how about some pork and rice?” Peter offered up the last of his rice, over half of which was still sitting in the box. 

Stiles stomach rumbled its happy acceptance, though his face didn't seem quite as enthused.

“Ah, you've done enough for me for one day . . .” his eyes fixated on the box. His tongue flicked out over his chapped lips. His stomach practically begged.

“Oh just take it,” Peter said, shoving the box into the human's arms. “It's leftovers anyways.”

Stiles flashed an appreciative grin. His smile was bright and beautiful, nothing like the quick and uneasy lift of his lips he'd been giving just hours ago. He popped the top off the container and dug in with the plastic fork. 

“You are my favorite person, literally, my favorite,” the boy said with bits of rice clinging to his mouth. He licked them away and continued shoveling the food into his body.

Peter chuckled. The smallest part of his heart actually glowed at the praise. He quickly squashed it down. Stiles was his client, and only his client; a sweet and needful one maybe, but his affections came from a service and not his personality.

“Thank you.”

“Do you want me to pay you back for this?” he asked once half of the rice had been consumed. “I've got like a fiver in my pocket if you want it?”

Peter shook his head. “No, you probably need it for deodorant and painkillers. It'd be like taking money from an orphan.”

Stiles swallowed another bit of rice before responding. “Well, I am an orphan, so,” he shrugged.

“You are? How old-” Peter frowned. His wolf didn't like that, not one bit. 

“I'm twenty-one, but my dad died when I was twelve, mom died when I was eight.” He shrugged. “It's over now.”

“Ah, I'm sorry to hear that,” the faces of his nieces and nephews flashed in his mind. Though they lived far away he thought of them often and missed them terribly. He couldn't imagine what losing them all suddenly would be like.

“It's in the past,” Stiles said dismissively, though the corners of his mouth tightened. He tipped the container upside down and shook the rest of his rice out onto his palm, then licked it right off his hand. “What about you? Don't werewolves usually have like a shit ton of relatives?” 

“I wouldn't say 'shit ton,' but I do come from a large family. We aren't really on speaking terms, though.” 

Now it was Stiles turn to frown. “Wait, but then wouldn't you go feral?” His eyes widened with an admirable amount of concern for the doctor he barely knew. 

“My coworker is an alpha, we have our own pack bond and we make it work,” Peter said lightly. He didn't feel the need to tell him that Deuc was the one who convinced him to leave after Talia passed him over as the future alpha, he didn't need to go into how the hurt still stung in his chest. Deucalion saw him for what she hadn't; intelligent and a born leader. 

“Oh, good. I was kinda worried there for a second, I thought maybe I'd come in one day and my doctor would be snarling behind bars,” the bright grin returned to his face. 

“Not today, Stiles. Not today.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Peter, listen-”

“Erica Reyes, you are forty-five minutes late, this is your second time this month. If you don't get here in the next five min-”

Her voice came through the other line frantic and angry. “Listen here, old man-”

“You think insulting me will save your job?” Peters claws flicked out. He stopped the rumble in his throat before it could start. He had no time or patience for her excuses. It was bad enough that he could feel the anger radiating off of Deucalion.

“Just listen,” the girl hissed. “I found your pet passed out at the bus station. He's breathing weird, and when I touch him he feels cold. I'm going to try-”

“Wait. Stiles? You're with Stiles right now?” Peter's heart stopped. He hadn't seen the kid in four days. His mind went to the worst places imaginable. He thought of how long Stiles could have been lying helplessly in pain somewhere.

“Yes, I'm with Stiles. I think something's – I know something's wrong with him, Peter.”

“What happened to him?” Peter demanded.

“I'm not sure. I got here and he was hunched over, I tried to talk to him because I recognized him from the clinic but he just slumped over and wouldn't speak. Now his eyes are closed and he's not-”

“Okay. I need you to stay there with him until I can get there, alright? Call me back if he gets any worse.” He put the phone on his shoulder as he tugged on his coat.

“Okay,” said Erica. “Should I start drain-”

“No! No, no don't,” he struggled to come up with a reason. “I need to see how bad he is. So just leave him alright? Unless he wakes up and asks for it, then do your best to make him feel comfortable but don't go overboard.”

“Okay,” said Erica. “Okay, I can do that.”

“Listen, Stiles pain is a lot worse than anything you've dealt with so far, if you do have to drain him let go if it starts to actually hurt. Don't let yourself be overwhelmed or you'll take too much.”

He got the location from her before hanging up the phone.

He didn't bother knocking before he barged into Deucalion's exam room.

“Deuc,” he said after clearing his throat.

Deucalion looked back at him. His hand was enclosed around the shoulder of an elderly man.

“Find our lovely receptionist?” he asked with a tight-lipped grimace. Erica wasn't his favorite of their staff – she was too disrespectful of authority figures, but that's what Peter liked the most. She was someone he could snark at without worrying about a harassment lawsuit.

“No, she's in the middle of something and I need to go help her with it. You're on your own.”

“You can't be serious,” Deuc snapped. He ripped his hand away from the man's shoulder. Quickly regaining his cool he said more softly, “We have lots of patients today, and I can't afford to lose both of you.”

“I'm sorry, as soon as I get to the station I'll have Erica head over. It's important.”

“Fine,” Deuc said with a narrowing of his eyes. “Leave me alone with -” he cast a glance towards the nearly deaf man on the table, “-our lovely clients.”

The elder man smiled weakly and patted Deuc on the arm. He didn't notice the subtle way his doctor tensed.

“Thank you,” Peter breathed.

It took him ten minutes to reach the bus station on foot. It wasn't hard to spot Erica and her corn silk hair that hung down in perfect rivulets over her leather jacket. She sat cross-legged on the ground with Stiles' head in her lap.

Stiles was trembling. He wore the same red sweatshirt as always. His knees were curled into his chest.

“How is he?” Peter asked. He crouched by Erica's side and placed his hand over the boy's forehead.

Stiles shuddered but didn't open his eyes. His skin was pale and cold to touch. He breathed through a slight part in his lips.

“He's opened his eyes a couple of times but he keeps groaning and whining. I don't think he recognizes me.” Erica was more of a mess than she sounded on the phone. Her mascara was smeared on her cheeks in the pattern of tears rolling down her face. Her white teeth bit into her bottom lip. “Should I have started draining him? Did I make a mistake?”

“He'll be okay,” Peter reassured. “He's probably just in shock. You should go back to work. I'll call and let you know when he wakes up.”

“Are you sure? You don't need me to-”

“I appreciate the offer, but Deucalion might actually kill someone if we're both missing for too long. You head to work now.”

Erica worried her lip a little more before gently sliding Stiles head from her lap to Peters. “You'll let me know he's okay, right?” Her hands stayed on Stiles' shoulders a little more than was really necessary. Her fingers dug into the cloth a little.

“Of course,” Peter said with a gentle nod.

Erica stood and cast one last glance behind before she raced off down the busy street, her hair whipping behind her as she ran.

Peter turned his attention to Stiles. The noise of the station was too loud for his heartbeat to be heard, so he placed his hand on Stiles' chest instead. Through his shirt, he could feel his chest rise and fall with his breathing. Several lagging heartbeats accompanied it.

“Fuck,” Peter murmured.

Stiles' eyes squinted open, the space that should have been white was red. His eyelashes glistened with unshed tears. His lips quivered as the trembling continued to shake his body.

He took his hand from Stiles' chest and placed it on the side of his cheek.

Stiles pressed into Peter's palm as the drain started. He gasped.

The drain lasted a full five minutes, perhaps longer. Peter lost track of time as he bit his lip from the sheer discomfort that was Stiles body. He'd gotten good at blocking the pain his clients felt, normally nothing came through, or maybe a little tickle at worst, but not with Stiles. Stiles body was absolutely riddled with it. It was like electricity firing into his fingertips again, and again, and again. It was like holding a fork in a power outlet.

He pulled his hand from Stiles' face once his veins went gray. He flexed his fingers to lessen the discomfort traveling through his body.

Some of the pink had returned to Stiles' lips, and a little color returned to his cheeks. His eyes were fully open, though they were nearly vacant as he stared up at the sky.

“Hello there, sweetheart. Coming back to us?” Peter asked, giving his shoulder a little shake.

Stiles' lips moved but no words left his mouth. He wasn't good, but at least he wasn't in pain. There had to be medication for him somewhere, something that would make him feel better. Stiles said pills didn't help the pain but maybe they could lessen the other symptoms.  
“Can you tell me where you live?” Peter asked. He tilted Stiles chin up so they were facing each other.

Stiles murmured something under his breath, but it was too low to hear, even by werewolf standards. His eyes closed again and his head fell limp against Peters' thigh.

Peter pulled out his cell phone. He entered the number for the clinic and pressed it to his ear.

The phone rang four times. “Thank you for calling-” Erica's voice sang out in a musical chirp on the other end of the line. She still sounded shaken, but she was holding it together.

“Erica, I need you to look up Stiles folder and tell me where he lives.”

“Stiles?” her voice perked up. “How's he doing? He doesn't have an I.D. on him or anything?”

Peter paused. He hadn't even thought to check. “No, he doesn't,” he decided. “He's doing okay but I have to get him home.”

“Okay, I'll get it. Hold on a second.” There was a soft click as the phone was placed on hold.

“You're going to be alright, Stiles,” Peter said calmly. He ran his fingers through the short brown hairs that clung to the top of the human's head – they were greasy, likely from a lack of adequate care. He shrugged off his jacket and laid it over Stiles prone body.

Stiles' arms moved around the jacket to hug it like a teddy bear to his chest. “Good,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He was drowned out by the sound of Erica rattling off the address on the other end of the phone.

“Let's get you home.” Peter positioned his arm underneath Stiles' body and lifted him into a sitting position. He was mildly surprised when the boy weakly stood up with help from the werewolf. He readjusted his jacket so it draped over Stiles' shoulders and would hopefully keep him from reverting back into a shaking, trembling, mess.

He half-carried, half-dragged Stiles from where he'd been sitting at the bus stop to his apartment thankfully only three blocks away. The entire time Stiles shivered helplessly as he was pulled along, but a little bit of lucidity came back into his eyes as they reached the building. He handed over his key readily before Peter even had a chance to ask for it.

He pushed open the door to the apartment and was hit with the sudden smell of old takeout food and underused cleaning products. A pile of pizza boxes and Chinese food containers littered the counter top. Several bottles of orange-scented disinfectant stood abandoned around the kitchen.

The floor was surprisingly clean, aside from several pairs of hooded sweatshirts that lay scattered on the carpet.

Stiles jerked his head towards the direction of his bedroom. He kept his arm around Peter and let himself be pulled along with a stumbling gait.

The bedroom looked just like any other. A laptop lay propped open on a desk in the corner, a few books lined the shelves. Several fans angled towards the bed, which held an unusually large assortment of pillows and blankets. A mini fridge stood next to the bed, sporting a variety of empty waters and Gatorade on top.

“Bed. Please. Now.” Stiles tugged on his sleeve.

Peter obliged and stepped around the fans to the bed. He lifted the pile of blankets and helped Stiles ease onto the mattress and between his pillows. He realized the pillows arrangement that had seemed random at first was actually the outline of a small, Stiles-sized nest.

Stiles wiggled his way into position between the pillows and covered himself with two of the largest, fluffiest blankets. His head disappeared underneath them along with the rest of his body.

Peter hesitated. He shouldn't have been in this apartment at all. Stiles was his patient. He should have called an ambulance to take him to the hospital instead of walking him home. But Stiles didn't want a hospital, and it was still illegal to keep patients against their will. He just would have checked himself out and been back out on the street, wandering by himself, in the exact same position he was found in.

Stiles' eyes peeked up above the edge of his blanket. The corner of the blanket lifted up invitingly, revealing the slender white fingers. He motioned for Peter to join him.

Peter looked away, then back to the little nest.

He thought of all the seminars and lectures he'd ever been to about maintaining a respectful distance. He thought of all the stories he heard about doctors who had gone to jail for getting too close, or too pushy with an attractive patient. He thought of what a court might say if they heard he took his barely conscious client back to his home without anyone to testify nothing inappropriate had happened.

Then he kicked off his shoes and crawled into the bed. He displaced several of the pillows forming the outer walls of the nest and used his body to make up the difference.

Stiles wiggled closer underneath the blanket.

Peter put his hand against Stiles nape. Without thought, he tried to drain him again, but there was nothing left to take.

Stiles' head nuzzled against his collarbone.

“Thanks,” Stiles breathed. His body was still cold but the mass of blankets that pressed down on them was quickly warming the enclosed space. His body had stopped shaking. His eyes were dry but with a lingering puffiness. “I mean it.”

“You're welcome,” Peter said back. The hand he had on Stiles nape squeezed lightly and released.

A small voice in the back of his brain wondered loudly if he'd allowed Erica to drain him on her own if he'd have been able to walk back home by himself. Even if he had been able to Peter still wouldn't have let him, and the thought of Erica's hands on Stiles body – especially his face or his neck – filled him with a sense of agitation he couldn't quite explain. The only thing he knew for certain was that he didn't want Stiles looking at anyone with the same expression of grateful relief as he gave him.

“What were you doing at the bus station? Why were you outside when you're feeling this hurt? How long were you out there?”

“Not long. I had to buy food,” Stiles said. “I didn't think it would be so bad until I got outside, but I was already halfway there so,” he let his words trail off. He yawned and let his eyes fall shut.

“Food? Order it in next time,” Peter snapped.

Stiles scoffed, but his eyes remained shut. “I can't live off fast food forever, Peter. I'm not sure if you noticed the trash mountain over there or not, but I'm kind of getting sick of pizza, Chinese, and deli sandwiches. At some point, I have to actually be independent.”

“I don't know what's wrong with you, but you need to go back to your doctor. Whatever kind of treatment you're getting isn't enough if you're passing out on the street.”

“Peter,” Stiles said. “Thank you. I mean it; thank you. But you don't know what's wrong with me and trust me when I say it's not something a regular doctor is going to be able to fix. There's . . . I'm getting help, it's just not really the kind of thing that more drugs or even better drugs will fix.”

“Stiles, you're not-”

“Please, can we stop talking about this now? Please? I just want to go to sleep.” His eyes squinted open in a halfhearted glare. He struggled to keep his eyes open as he awaited Peter's response.

“Fine,” Peter said. “Get your rest, but I'll still be here when you wake up.”

He put his free arm around Stiles' shoulders and rested his hand between his shoulder blades. With the hand that lay against the boy's neck, he started to gently knead into the skin. He looked for any remaining traces of pain, but found nothing.

Stiles eyes slowly shut again. He relaxed against the werewolves chest and let his body unwind. It was almost strange seeing him so calm and unaffected by pain. “Please still be here,” Stiles whispered.

The words made Peter feel incredibly guilty for what he was about to do.

He waited patiently until his breathing slowed down enough to indicate he was asleep. He whispered his name quietly into his ear, but Stiles did not move. He gently withdrew his arms from around the boy's body, feeling a little guilty for doing so. Slowly, so as not to wake him he extracted himself from the bed. He replaced the pillows around Stiles body so he would have something warm to cuddle against.

Stiles shifted a little. His eyes furrowed in his sleep, but still, he remained under. His overtaxed body did not allow him to reawaken.

Peter moved silently around the apartment until he found the bathroom. It was well maintained compared to the clutter around the rest of the house. He pried open the mirror where most people would have kept their medical supply.

He found nothing.

Not a single advil. A few rolls of gauze were shoved into one corner, and a scant supply of herbal substances, but not a single pill.

He checked underneath the counter and found only more boxes of gauze.

Confusion flickered in his brain. Stiles said he was getting treatment. He said painkillers made him nauseous, but there was none to be found. He expected blood thinners, glucose tablets, at the very least a bottle or two of B12. But no, only gauze.

He checked the kitchen and the living room as well.

Nothing.

He went back to the bedroom feeling more and more confused. Stiles was definitely in pain; so why didn't he have medicine? There wasn't a single doctor in the entire world who wouldn't be able to justify something for that amount of discomfort. He was barely functioning for god's sake.

He looked down at the boy slumbering in his bed. He lay on his back, with his hand on his stomach, and the other raised above his head.

He tapped on the human's forehead but got no response.

When he was certain Stiles would not awaken he gently curled a hand underneath Stiles shirt and lifted it up until it was over his navel.

Wrapped around his abdomen was a thick layer of white bandages.

They smelled like death and rot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the nice comments and support, it keeps me going! Special thanks to Greenie for staying up late to edit my chapter for me n.n


	4. Chapter 4

Peter kept his eyes on Stiles' face as he laid his palm just above the bandages covering his abdomen. His skin was hot, a sharp contrast to the rest of the pale and frozen body. He could see a bit of inflammation peeking out from underneath the cloth. 

He couldn't smell any blood, though whether that was a good sign or bad he couldn't tell. He leaned in closer and sniffed, but the cocktail of sweat, pain, and putrid decay made him move back before he could catch anything new. 

He gently lowered Stiles shirt and leaned back on the bed to think. 

_No medication, and a wound or illness so painful it makes him cry. He's not taking painkillers, and he can't get a prescription for pain relief services._

“What the hell is wrong with you, Stiles?” Peter asked. 

While the worn human slumbered he set about clearing out the unseemly mess of leftover takeout containers. For what it was worth, Stiles had a reasonable system of sorting his piles of trash; cardboard on one side, paper and plastic on the other. It made things a lot easier as he dragged it all down to the dumpster behind his building. 

He returned to the kitchen and rifled through the fridge, only to come up with a few unripe tomatoes, a near empty gallon of milk, and some old hot dogs. He considered cooking the hotdogs, but the buns in the pantry were already moldy. He grimaced and closed the door. There was no way he was feeding any of that to Stiles, which meant now he needed to take a trip to the grocery store. 

It was halfway through paying for his items that he started to wonder if he was going a little bit overboard. For one, Stiles was an adult who was -relatively- capable of caring for himself. He didn't even go to this much trouble for his own relatives, let alone a sick boy who visited his clinic every few days. 

But there was something about Stiles, something sweet and strong hidden underneath his sea of pain that ebbed and flowed by day. Maybe it was the simple fact that he was trying so very, very hard to not rely on others that drove Peter's desire to help him past what he would normally do for another person. 

He was so lost in his thoughts as he set the bags down on the cleared table he didn't notice another person stepping into the kitchen. 

“For a second I thought someone robbed me.” Stiles stood in the doorway of his bedroom, carrying his motley collection of water bottles in his arms. He'd yet to change clothes, and the smell that clung to him was less than pleasant, but he was moving and he was smiling. 

“Is it possible to get robbed of trash?” Peter asked as he scanned over Stiles body for any sign of pain. 

Stiles ignored the question and dumped his water bottles into the sink. He edged around the table to peer curiously at the plastic bags. Without the pain to impede him, his movements were more enthusiastic, yet he still maintained his awkward and bumbling gait as he sidled over. 

“I was worried you left,” he said, pulling back the plastic to look inside the nearest bag. 

“Why? Are you hurting?”Peter reached out a hand for him, but Stiles moved away. 

“No,” he shook his head. “I just thought maybe you decided to skip out without saying goodbye,” Stiles shrugged and plucked a Gatorade out from inside the bag. 

“Is that your way of saying you missed me?” Peter teased with a wink. He pulled the bottle from Stiles' hands and set it in the fridge. 

The boy pouted at him. “No, it just would have been incredibly rude. I would've had to leave you a bad review on Yelp.” 

“Oh? Just what would your review have said, exactly?” Peter asked with a raised brow. 

“My doctor took me home for the night and didn't even bother sticking around to cuddle,” Stiles said easily with a fake little sniffle tacked on at the end. “Terrible bedside manner, two out of five stars. He didn't even pet me. No gentle caresses or hand holding. Nothing.” 

“Well I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm a bad practitioner,” Peter said with a chuckle. He petted Stiles course hair twice. “Satisfied?” 

Stiles grinned. “Contented.” 

Peter smirked. “It's good to see you actually up and moving around on your own.”

Stiles nodded. “Uhm, yup. Yeah. Very mobile, actually.” He waved his arms around. “Look, see? No pain or anything.” His grin widened as he flopped his arms around like a happy chicken. 

“Very impressive, Stiles,” Peter said while trying not to smile. 

“What is all of that?” Stiles asked, motioning towards the groceries. “I mean obviously it's food, but why?” He took another Gatorade from the bag, this time, Peter let him keep it.

“Well,” Peter said, “that is so you don't get yourself run over trying to keep yourself alive. The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep in the middle of the road. Traffic here is already terrible. There's also some scrub brushes and disinfectant to clean up your bathroom in there.”

“What?” Stiles furrowed his brow. “My bathroom is fine. It's clean.”

“It might be clean but is it _sterile_?” he asked.

“Sterile? Why does it need to be sterile?” 

“Because-” Peter cut himself off, thinking of the bandages around Stiles side. With his shirt covering them he couldn't smell the same level of decay as before. He didn't smell any blood underneath, but if there was a festering wound or some type of infection, the medical professional in him wanted to make sure the place he spent unclothed most often was kept in the most sanitary condition possible. But Stiles didn't know he knew, and he wasn't about to admit to staring at his stomach while he slept.

Stiles waited patiently for his response.

“Because bathrooms are breeding grounds for bacteria, and you are in desperate need of a bath, my greasy-haired street rat. I'll give you one now, unless you're not feeling strong enough, then you can eat first and take a bath afterward.”

“I don't need a bath,” Stiles said, sounding a little offended. He took another swig of his Gatorade and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. 

Peter looked pointedly at his mop of messy hair and his worn hooded sweatshirt. “Yes, yes you do.” 

Stiles puffed out his cheeks. “I meant I don't need you to _give_ me a bath, I can take one on my own.” 

“Alright, well let's see you do that while I make you dinner.”

“Wait,” Stiles eyes lit up. “How about I make dinner? I'm feeling much better now, and I'd like to do something normal, for once? Especially after all you've done for me.” His brown eyes widened in an adorable puppy-dog pout that was hard to resist. 

“. . . Fine,” Peter said with a sigh. “But if I see you even stumble it's back to bed. Then to bath.”

“You know if you wanted to get me naked there are better ways of going about it,” Stiles joked. He turned around and started to rummage through the bags. 

Peter watched him pull out a few cans of tomato sauce and a box of pasta. 

“Hm, a shame I didn't buy any wine.” 

Stiles made a strange little coughing noise. His cheeks lit up, and for a split second Peter mistook it for the return of his fever. 

“Are you sure you don't need any help?” Peter asked. “Judging by your previous dietary choices-” 

“I order takeout because I'm usually in too much pain to leave the house, not because I like it. There's no beating a greasy pizza every once in awhile, but, I prefer real food.” 

Stiles pulled the tomatoes, green peppers, and onions out from the bag. He set to boiling water and rummaging through his underutilized cookware. “I hope you like Italian food.”

“Italian? Well, that's romantic of you.” 

“Shut up,” Stiles said with a grin.

“I suppose I'll just start putting the rest of the groceries away. Actually – why don't you shower now? It'll give time for the water to boil, and I'll start chopping up the vegetables for you. Then you can do the actual cooking when you get back.” 

“Why?” Stiles asked. He rolled up his sleeves and raised a suspicious brow as Peter nonchalantly tossed a pinch of salt into the pot of water on the stove. 

“Really? Are you going to make me spell it out?” he sighed. “Because you smell Stiles. I'm a werewolf, you're sweaty, your apartment is small. I could smell you from the top floor I'll bet. My nose needs a reprieve, sweetheart.” 

“O-oh,” Stiles said, the embarrassment coloring his voice. “I guess I'll go take a shower then.” 

“Yes, please do.” 

Peter waited until he heard the shower streaming, then he turned the stoves heat down a few notches and went into Stiles bedroom. There had to be evidence of his illness there. 

He opened the laptop, but the screen required a password and he doubted Stiles was stupid enough not to pick one that was easily guessed.

He looked underneath the boy's bed but found only empty water bottles, and a few misplaced clothing items. 

In his dresser drawer, he found a zip lock bag of mountain ash. He felt angered until he realized that most humans these days kept mountain ash in their home to protect against unwanted werewolf invaders. 

The shower shut off and he moved back into the kitchen. 

Stiles returned smelling like too much shampoo, but he was wearing a clean pair of sweatpants and an old sweatshirt. He looked happy. It almost made Peter feel a little guilty for snooping through his things, but only a little. 

“Well don't you look like a happy little plague victim.” 

Stiles grinned and flipped him off. “You're so rude.” 

Peter just chuckled and scooped the vegetables from his cutting board into a small bowl. “Alright, now what, chef Stiles?” 

“Now, you sit down and let Stiles finish cooking,” he said. He picked the wooden spoon up from the table and smacked Peter's hands when he looked about to protest. 

The wolf growled but stepped away from the stove. 

“Thank you,” he said with a grin. 

“You know, I think I prefer you when you're invalid. You're so much quieter, sweeter, so appreciative. You look up at me with those big brown eyes glistening with adoration.” He rubbed the back of his hand, which already stopped hurting.

“I have never once done that,” Stiles denied. He grabbed the box of pasta from the counter and poured it into the boiling water. Then he took out another pan, added olive oil, and started to saute his vegetables. 

When it was finished he poured the noodles and sauce in two separate bowls and presented one to Peter. 

The wolf took his fork and skeptically dug into it. He made a face while he chewed. 

“Well?” he asked. “No mean joke? No sarcastic comment? Nothing?”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “This is actually rather good. Too good for me to insult you over it, I'm afraid. Your cooking is excellent.” It really was, not that it was particularly difficult to make good pasta, but it was still delicious, and Stiles was already puffing out his chest in pride. 

Stiles beamed. 

They ate mostly in silence, due large in part to the fact that Stiles appetite was ravenous from months of takeout and delivery. He swallowed down two bowls by himself before he finally finished eating. 

“You got sauce on you.” Peter wiped a smidgen of tomato sauce from Stiles' cheek. 

“So do you,” Stiles said, pointing his fork towards his nose. 

Peter furrowed his brow. “Where-” 

Stiles stuck his finger into some remaining sauce on his plate and went to swipe it down Peters' nose. Peter caught his wrist mid-act.

“Oh, no you don't, you little worm,” he said with a narrowing of his eyes. “Here I go, being all charitable, and you try and start a food fight.” 

Stiles chuckled. “Sorry. I guess I'm just a little giddy. I can walk around Peter. Do you know how awesome that is?” He grinned like a kid on Christmas and waved his arms again. 

Peter wasn't as thrilled. “That's sad, Stiles. You shouldn't be this happy for proper limb movement.” 

Stiles shrugged and dropped his arms down at his sides. “It happens. I've got a condition, remember? I wish you could be here all the time.” His shoulders stiffened once he realized what he'd said. He scratched the nape of his neck nervously. “I mean-” 

“I could be, if you wanted,” Peter shrugged. “I have the rest of the day off from work. I could stay a while longer, and drain you before bed. At least for tonight.” 

“You don't mind staying the night with me? Seriously?” he asked. “I mean I'm not going to die if you leave for a while, if that's what you're thinking.” 

“No,” said Peter. “I would like to stay. It'll give me some peace of mind, and you could probably use the rest.”

“Oh, well, do you want to watch a movie or something? I don't really have any board games or anything,” Stiles said with a little shrug and an awkward laugh. 

“A movie would be nice.”

“Okay, cool, a movie I'll set up the – ow!” Stiles winced as he stood. His hand fluttered over his bandages. 

“Stiles?” Peter's' eyes flashed with concern. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just, your drain is wearing off.” 

“Ah,” Peter said. “Well, then you go settle down on the couch. I'll join you in a minute.” 

Stiles nodded. He dragged himself to the sofa, wincing as the pain in his side returned in throbbing little bursts. He turned on the television and selected a random action movie from the 'most recent' list at random. 

Peter retrieved one of the soft fleece blankets from the bedroom. He sat down and pulled Stiles head over to his torso. 

Stiles let himself be manhandled into position with his head on Peter's collarbone and his body nestled underneath the blanket. Peter's hand found its way to its usual resting place against his nape. The blunt fingernails started to massage his skin just below his hair.

Stiles repressed the sigh building in his throat as Peter started to drain him. 

Peter looked at him, the boy who had suffered so much for so long. He wondered what could have possibly happened to make him this way. 

* 

“How is Stiles?” Erica asked. 

Peter ignored her and headed straight for the coffee maker, still warm and bubbling with a fresh brew. His fingers still tingled with his most recent draining. He'd woken up twice to Stiles whimpering, but the rest of the night had been nice. It felt good to have someone beside him for once, even if that someone was all gangly limbs that occasionally jerked into his side. 

Erica snarled when he ignored her question. 

“Stiles is fine,” he said. “Last I checked he was fast asleep.” He rummaged around in the top cupboard for a mug and pulled out his usual white cup. 

“You didn't answer my texts.” 

Erica's fingers tapped the desk in agitation. 

“My phone died,” he explained simply, and it was true. He hadn't even thought to plug it in before he'd fallen asleep on the sofa, Stiles snoring contentedly at his side. 

“Oh?” Erica raised her brow. “Why did your phone die?” 

“Because I forgot to plug it in.”

“Because you were busy?” 

“I suppose, yes.” He poured the remaining coffee from the pot into his cup and turned off the machine. Deucalion hated the stuff, and Erica already had a cup beside her. 

“How was the clinic yesterday?” he asked before he could be pelted with any more questions. 

Erica grimaced like she'd tasted something sour. 

“Awful. Deuc was pissed. The patients were nasty,” her eyes lit up a little. “I did get to drain a few – a woman with menstrual cramps, and a writer with a sprained wrist,” she sighed and cupped her mug in her hands. “He was so cute and sweet. We might be going on a date Saturday.” Her red painted lips curled into a wide grin. She fluttered her dark lashes temptingly. 

“Careful,” Peter said, knowing the chastisement would fall on deaf ears. “You could get in trouble for that.” 

Erica scoffed. “You're one to talk, running around with that Stiles kid. You two obviously like each other. He requests you, and you took him back to his apartment last night and now all the sudden your phone's dead? Plus, you smell like a different shampoo.” Her lips curled up in a wicked way. “Peters got a _booooyfrieeeend_ ,” she taunted. 

Peter stirred his coffee slowly. He took one sip before setting it down against the desk. 

“Stiles likes me because I give him a sense of relief he hasn't had in a long time. He requests me because I am familiar. I took him home, put him to bed, and left. My phone is dead because I forgot to plug it in all the way last night and the battery slowly drained. Also, the cinnamon shampoo was on sale.” 

“I'm glad to hear that, Peter,” said a falsely chipper voice from the doorway. 

He and Erica turned to see Deucalion, emerging with his usual tea in hand.  “I was going to ask you about your relationship with that boy, but it appears Erica already had it covered.” 

“Morning boss,” chirped Erica. Her hands fluttered over the papers on her desk, as if she'd been doing work the whole time.

“Will that sickly boy be coming here again, today?” Deuc looked at Peter. His smile didn't fade but his eyes were sharper, more focused. 

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter subtly informed, “will not be here, no.” 

“Ah, and how do you know that?”

“Because he takes a long time to drain. We've had plenty of time to chat.” 

“How odd, every time I've seen him he's barely been able to keep his eyes open.” There was an unspoken accusation in Deucalion's eyes as he surveyed his staff. When no one spoke up he continued. “Not that anyone asked, but my day yesterday was awful. We had plenty of walk-ins, and poor Erica had to maintain the front desk and drain patients at the same time.” 

“Well, now she has plenty of experience to talk about in class next week.” Peter wouldn't apologize for taking a day off for the first time in two years, and he knew Deucalion knew him better than to expect one. 

Deuc didn't say anything. He only stirred his tea and walked past the reception desk to his office. The door slid shut behind him with a click. 

“Uhm, speaking of work things,” Erica interrupted. “That woman, Ms. Montigo called and wants her next session free. She said she has bruises on her arm from the last time. Apparently, in her own words, they are causing 'significant distress.'” 

Peter sighed. “Fine. Put her on for the next available session. Also, I need you to do one other thing for me, preferably without,” he motioned towards the office door, “him knowing about it?” 

Erica grinned. “Oh, I love being sneaky, what do you need?” 

“Could you get me a medical request form? There's a certain patient I'd like to get a history of.”

Erica looked through the cabinets behind her desk until she pulled out a little white stack of papers. 

“Here you go boss man,” she said as she handed them over. 

“Thank you, Erica.” His mind went back to the bandages on Stiles side, and the evasive way he answered. He could hear his heartbeat pound faster when he mentioned the lack of medicine, pushing him on the topic would only make him defensive, but he knew one way to get the truth, a way that didn't require Stiles expressly telling him. 

All he needed was a little signature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments and support n.n it keeps me going.


	5. Chapter 5

It was hard to focus on the minor aches and pains of his other clients when Peter knew out there somewhere was a boy with a bandaged side and an indescribable ache coursing through his body, someone who needed _actual_ help. 

His fingers twitched. The stack of papers, so tantalizingly close, and so capable of giving him the answers he sought just needed a stupid little signature for his plan to work. All he needed was consent, consent to dig up each and every one of Stiles medical visits over the past ten years. There was no way that whatever it was on his side wouldn't have been reported. 

Except maybe it hadn't been. 

Maybe Stiles was lacking a prescription because no one knew what was wrong with him. 

But why would he hide it? He was clearly suffering, he clearly wanted help. 

But he'd already lied about getting treatment. Who knew what else he was lying about. 

Perhaps he wasn't a legal citizen, and that's why he'd never visited a doctor. That still didn't explain what was wrong with him. He couldn't get the smell of decay from his nose. It was vile, like two things that simply shouldn't meet were clashing underneath his skin. 

There was nothing wrong with what he was doing. He was a doctor, and it was a doctor's job to help. Maybe he hadn't gone to an expensive six-year medical school like the ones who treated the cause and not just the symptoms, but he still studied and practiced. He knew every muscle in the human body and several that were unique to wendigos. So he would be remiss in not using every available resource he had to help Stiles to the best of his abilities. 

Stiles did stop by very briefly to give him a 'thank you lunch,' as he described it, of a grilled chicken wrap with assorted fruits and vegetables. Apparently, he'd been having a little too much fun in the kitchen, now that he was capable of using it again if the flour on his T-shirt was anything to go by. 

He wasn't nearly as miserable as before, though his hands still shook and it was obvious little movements were upsetting him more than he let on. Still, Stiles grinned brightly and jumped around with the energy of a golden retriever.

He nodded at Erica to keep an eye out for Deuc while she stood barrier between him and the waiting room.

Erica gave a thumbs up. 

Peter grabbed Stiles by his arm and pulled him into the third exam room, draining what little pain lingered in his body whilst they walked. 

“While you're here, perhaps you could sign a document for me?” 

Stiles groaned. 

“Don't worry, all I need is a little signature on the bottom. It's just for legal reasons, so Deuc doesn't get on my ass about where all my times been going, and why exam room three is getting such heavy usage.” 

“I'm not causing problems, am I?” Stiles asked uncertainly. 

“No, sweetheart, you're not the issue. It's my boss who's the problem,” he sighed. Perhaps it was just jealousy, but he didn't want Deuc anywhere near his boy. 

“His names Deucalion, right? You said he was your alpha?” 

“Yes,” Peter said. “He and I have been pack for a very, very long time.”

Stiles' eyes glinted in their curious way.  He was quite the little talker now that he has the strength for it. “How did you two meet?” 

“I'll tell you after work. I'm a little busy right now,” he dropped his voice another octave, “although I'd love for you to stay, a certain Ms. Erica over there might not let you leave if you stick around any longer, and my boss won't be happy if he has to deal with more than his set amount of clients.” 

He took less than two minutes to drain completely, and once he had Peter ushered him out the door before Deucalion had a chance to see; but not before Erica pestered him into giving up his phone number. Then it was back to his dreary, humdrum work.

It wasn't for another six hours that he finally finished up his last patient for the day. 

“You're all good to go, Sarah,” said Peter as he took his hand off the young woman’s shoulder. 

She smiled a little and nodded her head. The single mother of three suffered from migraines, frequently. She was another one of his less facetious patients, and so he gave her a much nicer experience than the others. 

“Thank you, Dr. Hale,” she said as she sat up from the table.

Peter guided her from the exam room and out into the empty reception area. He watched her check out with Erica and then turned to his young receptionist as the door shut behind her. 

“I vaguely remember there being a second patient in here before I left?” He thought of the meek brunette, covered in acne, sweating like Stiles, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt too big to properly fit her small frame. 

Erica's eyes flashed yellow with guilt. 

“She had epilepsy, Peter. She was taking the same medication I used to.” 

He couldn't blame her for caving in and draining someone without the proper certifications, he'd done it a few times as a teenager as well. Despite what the politicians on television said; it wasn't that easy to kill someone, and it wasn't that easy to get addicted to it. 

“If anyone asks I watched you the whole time,” he said, flashing his yellow eyes back.  “It just takes one patient to say you treated them inappropriately to ruin a career. Next time, just let me know first.” 

Erica's bright smile returned. She gave a mock salute before shutting down her computer and putting her files away. 

They closed up the shop easily and went their separate ways, Erica mumbling something about getting coffee with the attractive but shy writer she'd met the day before. 

Peter continued down his path, taking a turn he didn't usually take that would lead him back to Stiles apartment.

Stiles met him halfway. He sat outside of a coffee shop, a cup of coffee in one hand. 

“Hey sweetie, how was work?” Stiles asked with a little chuckle. He wore clean clothes, his stomach didn't growl with hunger, and his skin was clear. For once he looked – and smelled - like a regular human instead of a zombie. 

Peter could already smell the return of his pain, but it wasn't so pungent as before.

“Fine, darling, just fine. How are you feeling?” he asked. 

“Good. I walked here and I only winced once,” Stiles winked. “I bought you a coffee if you want it.” He pushed the red paper cup across the glass table. 

Peter smiled and picked up the coffee cup. “Shouldn't you be saving your money for painkillers, or alcohol, or whatever you use when I'm not around?” He was about to ask how Stiles already knew what he liked before he remembered he'd spent a good twenty minutes criticizing the boys coffee collection before settling on just making his own brew at work. 

Stiles shrugged. “I have a lot of savings. Let's just say it's the cities way of saying sorry for something that wasn't really their fault.” Stiles stood from his chair and held out his hand.

“What?” Peter looked down at the hand.

“It's so you can drain me and we can talk at the same time,” Stiles explained. “I don't have cooties, promise.” 

“What _do_ you have?” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “A secret. C'mon, let's go.” 

Peter took his hand and clasped his fingers tight around Stiles. Their hands were warmed as they pressed into each other. He entwined his fingers with the humans and let his drain start slow and soft. There wasn't as much to take today. 

“So, did you do anything today aside from thinking up cryptic responses?” 

“Hmm,” Stiles looked up pensively. “Well, I could actually walk this morning, so I went outside and smelled the flowers. Then I frolicked through the fields. After that, I came here to wait for my favorite leech.” 

“It's the middle of winter. How many flowers are there for you to smell?” 

“Ah but it's the middle of winter in _California_.” Stiles said, motioning to his light jacket. “It's only forty degrees out today.”

“Still,” said Peter. “If I were you I'd stay in and watch television.” 

“You don't seem the type,” said Stiles. “Besides, that's what I do every day. I stay home and lay on the couch so much there's little Stiles-sized indents in the sofa. The pizza guy and I are on a first-name basis.” 

“Fair enough.” 

“So,” Stiles drawled. “About your alpha-?” 

“For someone who doesn't like to answer questions, you ask quite a lot.” Stiles' fingers squeezed his. He  squeezed back. 

“I'm just curious. You don't talk about him. I thought alphas and betas were supposed to be super close? Are you two related?”

“No, not exactly,” said Peter. 

“What happened to your old alpha?”

“Nothing, not that I'm happy about it.” He rolled his eyes. “It just wasn't working out.” He looked over at the chipper boy at his side. 

Stiles frowned at him. “So how did you wind up with Deucalion?” 

Peter sighed. “Deucalion was trying to form an alliance with my older sister – my alpha; she refused because an alliance would mean less territory for her to dictate. I saw how much stronger combining our packs would make us, but she still refused. Deuc appreciated my intelligence in a way she never had, and so when he left I left with him.” 

“Was it hard to leave your alpha?” Stiles asked. “I mean . . . did it hurt?”

“Hurt?” Peter laughed. “No, not at all. Staying with her would have been more painful than leaving anyways.”

“But she's your _alpha_. It can't have been easy to be without her.”

“I had Deucalion,” Peter said. “I'm not going to lie and say it was painless, but, it was a necessary evil. I do miss my nieces and nephews, but she wouldn't bar me from seeing them if I tried.”

They rounded the corner to Stiles apartment in silence. He unlocked the door and held it open while Peter walked inside. 

He was hit with the barrage of citrus scents from the cleaning products that had been used to give the counters and floors the good scrubbing they'd been deprived off. 

“Now that I've answered your questions,” Peter said, slugging his coat off and draping it over the back of the sofa. “I believe you owe me an answer to one of mine?” 

“Alright,” Stiles said. He jumped up and sat on the table. 

“Am I to assume you won't answer any questions about your illness?” 

Stiles pressed his lips together. “It's still off limits.” 

“Alright, then tell me . . . where does your money come from? What is the city apologizing for that would allow you to live without a job?” Peter asked. He closed in on Stiles like a cat on a mouse. 

Stiles sighed. The light in his eyes dimmed. He set his empty cup on the table. “It's not a happy story.” 

“Mistakes usually aren't.” 

Stiles was quiet for so long that Peter thought maybe he intended not to answer. Finally, he parted his lips and spoke. 

“My dad died,” he said sadly. “He was a police officer – soon to be the sheriff, but, he went out on a call one day and never came back.” 

“Oh,” Peter frowned. “I'm so sorry.” 

“It's alright, well, it isn't, but,” he shrugged. “There isn't anything I can do about it now.” 

Peter brought a hand up to brush the side of Stiles' face. “May I ask what happened?” 

Stiles wrung his hands on his lap while he worried away at his lip. 

“The person my dad was trailing caught on to him. One of the officers at the station was blabbing at a bar about the case. I guess the killer was there, he overheard. He found out where we lived and,” Stiles cut off. His eyes were distant. 

Peter's hand on his cheek traveled to his nape and squeezed it lightly, just to let him know he didn't have to continue. 

Stiles rested his head on his shoulder. 

“The officer who leaked everything got fired, but I . . . I just wanted my dad back.” He could hear the wetness building in Stiles' throat, and almost wished he hadn't asked. 

Peter growled lowly into Stiles' ear. “I hope he got more than just 'fired.'” He wrapped his free arm around Stiles' waist and pulled him closer. “What happened to? Was your mom-?” 

“Already gone,” said Stiles sadly. “'m dads health insurance paid out well. Victim compensation covered the r-rest.” Peter felt a droplet of water against his neck. He ran his hand through Stiles' hair. “I got adopted by a druid who took care of my mom before she died.” 

“I'm so sorry about what happened to you, Stiles.” Peter pulled back and rested his head against the Stiles forehead. 

Stiles pulled away and looked up at him. His smile was weak and flickering. His eyes were wet. “It's over now.” 

They looked at each other. Then, abruptly, Stiles pushed him away with both hands on his chest. Or at least he tried. Peter stayed firmly rooted in front of him. 

“Seriously, what are you doing paling around with a kid like me?” The corners of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “I'm sick, weak, I don't have a job. I sit at home all day, play video games, and eat pizza. You're a doctor. You have a career and a pack. What do you want from me? Did you lose a bet or something?” He wiped the remaining tears off on his sleeve. 

Peter didn't smile. 

“No,” he said. “Spending time with you isn't a loss or a chore to me. I spend all my time dealing with people who are entitled, who cry for no reason, who think a hand wave should erase all their petty problems but you – you have an actual reason to be upset, you have an actual reason to cry. But you don't. I guess I just like spending time with someone who's not just trying to take advantage of the world.” 

Stiles smile became a lot more genuine. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.” 

Peter reached a hand up and thumbed over his cheek. 

Stiles stared at him. 

Peter leaned closer. 

Their lips pressed together. 

“I think I needed that,” said Peter. 

They pressed together again. 

* 

Deucalion looked up from his desk. He was pouring over a small stack of papers stapled together. His lips widened in his mischievous way, the way that warned he had a secret to tell and was just bursting to share it. 

Peter ignored him in favor of the coffee pot in the corner. Deucalion could wait a little longer. It was Erica's day off, meaning it would just be the two of them and their other receptionist, Isaac. 

Deuc's eyes lingered on the back of Peter's coat as he rummaged around for a cup, then a few packets of creamer. As he swirled a spoon around in his drink, turning the liquid from black to beige he finally gave in. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Oh nothing much,” Deuc said. He closed the stack of papers and folded his hands on top of it. “Just looking at a Mr. 'Stiles' Stilinski's medical records. You wouldn't happen to know why-” 

“What?” Peter dropped his spoon. He made a move to seize the records, to snatch them off the desk and away from Deucalion's twitchy fingers. 

Deuc kicked his chair back and held the papers tantalizingly out of reach. “As I was saying,” he cleared his throat, “do you have any idea why these were faxed here this morning, Peter?” His head tilted to one side, the smile dropped from his face. 

Peter lowered his hand that still reached for the papers. “Stiles is my patient,” he said simply. “He gave consent to look up the rest of his history.” 

“Did he? For what reason?” Deuc lay the papers back down on his desk but folded his hands over them. 

“So that I could have a better understanding of-”

“Don't bullshit me, Peter.” Deucs eyes narrowed. “You're in a relationship with that boy, or if you aren't now you want to be.” 

Peter stilled. “That – my relationship with Stiles has been-” 

“Unprofessional, inappropriate, immoral, unseemly _and_ -” 

“Are you actually going somewhere with this, are you just content to shout synonyms at me?” Peter snapped. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

“And-” Deuc continued “-it's _unethical_. The kind of unethical that could get both of us thrown in jail. Or have you forgotten that wonderful ten-hour seminar on sexual misconduct?” 

“I have not slept with Stiles,” Peter defended. He couldn't take his eyes off the papers just under Deucs hand. If only he could get it away from him. 

“No, but you've been to his house, haven't you?” 

Peter remained quiet. 

Deucalion clicked his tongue. “Oh, Peter. You really should have known better,” he said whilst shaking his head. “You absolutely reek of that boy. His smell's ingrained into your skin like you let him rub all over you.” He wrinkled his nose and unfolded his hands. He tapped them lightly against the desk.

“So what if I _have_? He's a consenting adult.”

“So what?” Deuc laughed, but the sound was bitter and joyless. “So what if he turns on you? What if he decides he wants more? What if he cries 'abuse' to the medical board? We'd be on trial, _again_.”

“Between the two of us, I think you'd find you're the only one with a record.” 

Deuc hissed. “That does not change my point. Stiles is a liability I will not have wandering around my office. You know, I wouldn't even mind so much if you were charging him the appropriate amount, but you've been giving him hefty discounts, and halving his time on all the charts. You charge him for one hour when he takes two, or even more while he's napping away in our exam room.”

“I'm not going to bleed a sick boy dry. The last thing he needs is to worry about is-” 

“We aren't a charity, Peter. We don't do work pro-bono.  We charge. They pay. That's the end of the story.” 

“Stiles needs to come here, he's hurting.” 

“Then refer him to another doctor. He can find a new clinic, but I won't be the subject of a misconduct lawsuit when things go sour between you.” 

Deucs expression became deadly serious as his eyes turned vivid and scarlet. “I am your friend but I am also your _alpha_. I do not want Stiles coming here again. He is blocked from our booking system, and the records you've requested will be given to Isaac to shred. That's final.”

Peters' hands clenched tight at his sides. His jaw was tight, almost painfully so. The way Deucalion spoke to him like a disrespectful teenager reminded him of Talia, and that sent a spike of defiance through his veins. 

“Fine,” he relented, unable to resist the command of his alpha, but his mind was already scheming. He turned on his heel, unwilling to see the self-satisfied smirk he knew would rest on Deuc's face, as it always did when he got his way. 

“If you must know,” he called as Peter wrenched the door open. “He wasn't lying, he has an autoimmun-” 

Peter slammed the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for the nice comments and support n.n


	6. Chapter 6

Two days went by before Peter's oppositional defiance got the better of him. He wasn't going to let Deucalion tell him what to do, especially not when it was having such a negative effect on Stiles. 

He'd started coming home to the boy wrapped up underneath his mountain of blankets, sweating, listless, and hungry. 

Stiles tried pretending he was fine, but it was so very obvious that without someone there to drain his discomfort away he was falling back into bad habits. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Stiles asked while Peter unlocked the door to the clinic. He cautiously looked up and down the streets as though he expected someone to jump out at him; which was a reasonable concern knowing Erica was on her way. 

“Yes,” said Peter with a faint smile. “Erica won't tell, and we'll scrub the place down afterward so your scent doesn't linger.” _What Deucalion doesn't know can't hurt him,_ he reasoned internally. 

Once they were inside Stiles flitted about, examining everything like a curious little puppy.  He tilted his head to one side as he looked over the pamphlets and magazines laid out on the chairs and tables. He moved between the rows of seats, touching, feeling, glancing at whatever caught his attention. It was strange how active he'd become in the past few days. The little whimpering human who stayed in bed cringing all day was no more, replaced by a much more active, talkative youth. 

“You act like you've never been here before,” Peter said. He leaned against one wall and smiled as he watched Stiles in his explorations. 

“Well I've never been able to fully admire the beauty of this place,” Stiles grinned back at him. “Usually I just keep my head on my hands until you show up.” 

The bell above the door rang. They both looked over to see Erica standing there in her usual leather jacket. 

Her eyes glinted deviously when she saw Stiles standing there by the reception desk. She skipped over to him. Her arms wrapped around his torso in a tight, overly familiar hug. 

“Stiles!” she said, pressing her cheek against his. 

“Hello,” said Stiles with a little laugh. He wiggled his trapped arms at his side. 

“I didn't get to talk to you at all the other day. I was so worried about you,” she pulled back but her arms and settled them on Stiles' shoulders. Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout.  

Peter suppressed a growl. He didn't like the way her fingers were digging into Stiles clothes, embedding her scent in his jacket. 

“Oh, thanks,” Stiles said with a soft little smile. “Uh, thanks for calling Peter for me when I, you know,” he said. 

“Oh, it was no trouble at all! You know,” she said quieting her voice. She cast a surreptitious glance over at Peter, “one day I'll be a 'pain relief specialist' too,” she said as her eyes returned to Stiles. “Then you can come see me instead of grumpy old Peter. Just as soon as I finish these last few classes.” 

This time, the growl actually emitted. It was quiet and low, only traveling to Erica's werewolf sensitive ears. 

Erica smirked without even looking at him. 

“That's nice of you,” said Stiles. “But uh, Peter's pretty much got it covered. What kind of classes do you take, anyways? I thought it was a natural thing for all werewolves?” 

Erica pouted. “It is a natural thing,” she said. “These classes just teach things like anatomy, so you can know where the pain is coming from and whether or not a hospital is necessary. Sometimes,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “sometimes I drain people _without a license._ ” Her grin was positively devilish. She winked. 

“Oh,” Stiles blinked. “How dare you?”

“Alright, I think that's enough touching,” Peter said. He narrowed his eyes and flashed yellow at his fellow beta. 

Erica released her arms from around Stiles' shoulders and took a step back. “Will your 'friend' be staying with us, today?” she asked Peter. 

“No,” said Peter. “He just wanted to walk here with me this morning.” 

Erica gave them a look. “Oh, so you mean to say you spent the-” 

“It was on the way,” he said with narrow eyes. 

Erica shrugged. “Whatever you say, boss man.” 

She side-stepped Stiles, intentionally brushing her shoulder against his arm as she did – to walk over to her desk. She sat down in her chair with a flirtatious flip of her hair and typed her username and password into the system. 

“Stiles,” Peter motioned towards the exam room. 

The boy followed him eagerly back behind the counter and into the familiar space. He hopped up on the table and winced.

“Is the ache back again?” Peter asked.

“Kind of,” Stiles said. He rubbed his hand over his side. 

“Give me your hands.”

“Why don't you drain me from my throat anymore?” he asked. 

“Because I like holding your hands,” Peter said. “Now give them to me.” 

Stiles willingly held up his palms for him to take. 

With each passing day draining him got easier and easier. The pain never subsided for long, but he could cook and move and do all the things that he liked to do, and that had lifted his spirits tremendously. He no longer looked like the depressed young thing who'd crawled in through the doors. 

Stiles relaxed against him, with his head against his shoulder as his pain was pulled from his body. 

“Thanks,” he said when it was all finished. He lifted up his head to look into Peter's eyes. 

Peter leaned their heads together. “You're welcome,” he breathed just before their lips met. 

When they pulled back Stiles' eyes focused on the door behind them. He frowned. 

Peter looked back to catch a glimpse of Erica's red smile grinning at them from behind the glass. He sighed. 

“Run along now, my sweet, before she has a chance to interrogate you.”

“I can already feel my phone vibrating with texts,” Stiles said. He pulled the small black device from his pocket and furrowed his brow at the screen. He typed a few short words and then stuck it back inside. 

“What'd she want?” 

“She wanted to know if you were a cuddler.” 

“And what did you say?” 

Stiles grinned. “That you were my snuggly, wuggly, bunny.” 

Peter scoffed. “As if,” he leaned close and nuzzled their noses together for a second. 

Stiles broke their embrace by hopping off the table, pain-free, and grinning like the adorable idiot he was. “I'll come by at noon?” 

“No,” Peter shook his head. “Deuc will be dropping by later, and I'd rather not have you run into each other. I'll text you when I'm finished and we can get coffee or something, alright?” 

“Alright,” Stiles said, he walked to the door before turning back, his eyebrows furrowed. “Oh wait,” he paused with his hand hovering over the door knob. “I forgot something.”

“What did you-” 

Stiles leaned up and kissed him on the lips. 

Peter heard Erica squeal somewhere out in the hallway. 

Stiles winked and was out the door. 

As he watched him go, Peter lightly touched the spot where Stiles' lips had met his own. 

For the rest of the day he had to deal with Erica's giddy expression and plentiful winks every time he walked a patient out to the waiting room.

The patients themselves didn't bother him as much as they used too, even when they whined about nonexistent ailments he merely rolled his eyes and flooded their senses with the tranquil buzz of pain drain they were so hungry for. 

When they closed the shop's doors Erica hovered beside him. 

“Stiles isn't meeting me here. I'm going to his house.” 

Her smile dropped. “But I wanted to talk to him.” 

“No, you wanted to harass him,” Peter rolled his eyes as he finished locking the door. “Leave us be.” 

“Fine,” she said with a huff. “Gimme,” she held out her hand. 

Peter dropped the clinic keys into her awaiting palm. 

“Don't lose them,” he warned. “Or _someone_ is going to have a conniption.” 

“I'm not going to lose them,” she said with a pout. “I've never lost them.” 

“No, but you've locked your phone inside twice.”

“Okay, I get it,” she rolled her eyes, a habit she'd no doubt picked up from her employer. “I'll be careful. You have fun with your boyfriend.”

“I intend to,” he said, turning on his heel and stalking in the direction of Stiles apartment. 

*

Stiles was an incredibly messy eater, Peter realized as he watched the boy swallow down a mouthful of pasta so large his cheeks bulged on either side. He looked like a squirrel the way he tried to stuff everything into his cheeks. 

“You might want to try aiming for your mouth.” He reached over and thumbed away some of the tomato sauce stuck to Stiles' lips. 

Stiles smiled sheepishly and flicked his little pink tongue out over his bottom lip. 

“Sorry,” he muttered before shoving another mouthful of pasta inside. 

Peter leaned back in his chair and pushed his remaining food over to Stiles side of the table. He thought the boy might enjoy some quality food that didn't come in a cardboard box, and he was right. 

With much enthusiasm, Stiles accepted the rest of Peter's meal and made it disappear along with the rest. 

“Will you be needing a box?” the kindly waitress asked. 

“I think he's got it covered. The check, though?” 

The woman nodded and scurried off with tray in hand. 

Peter watched Stiles eat, a little smile on his face. The kid had actually put on a decent bit of weight. His skin was mostly cleared up, and when he brushed his fingers through Stiles' hair it was soft and clean. He was relieved to find the boy _did_ have more than that one outfit. 

Stiles looked up again once Peter had paid the bill and his plate had been licked clean.

“Thanks for lunch,” he said, lapping the remaining sauce from his fingertips. 

“You're welcome,” Peter said. He reached over to ruffle the short brown hairs that stuck out from Stiles' head in a mild disarray. “So what would you like to do with the rest of our day?” 

Stiles batted his hand away and looked up at the sky in thought. “I'm not sure,” he said. “I haven't actually been able to go out in a long, long time. I don't even remember what I think is fun anymore.” 

“Well, what did you like doing before you became a shut in? You seem like an energetic person, I'm sure there must have been something you liked.” 

Stiles bit his lip. 

“My mom used to take me to an amusement park by the beach during the summer. After she died I went with my friend Scott. We used to do lots of things together but, he and the druid that raised me went off to see if they could 'unlock his true potential,' or something like that.” He rolled his eyes and sucked up the last bit of cola pooling in the bottom of his glass with an unpleasant slurping noise.

“They just left you here? By yourself?” _In your condition?_ he wanted to say but didn't. 

Stiles set the glass back down on the table. “Yeah. Wasn't much they could do for me, so,” he shrugged. 

“Sounds like your druid wasn't much of a parent.” 

“He was always more Scott's dad than mine. Besides, I already _had_ a good father, I didn't need a second one.”

“No, but I'm sure you needed a _family_.” 

“This is a depressing topic,” said Stiles. He withdrew his hand from the table and tucked it into his hoodie pocket. His eyes drifted from Peter's face out to the road where a few cars passed quietly by. 

“Then let's pick a new one – how would you like to go to the amusement park?” 

Stiles smiled and looked back at him. “The park's closed. It's winter, remember?” 

“And why exactly would that matter?” 

Stiles raised a brow at him. 

* 

Peter bowed with a flourish as the gate to the park swung open. On the other side of the gate, Stiles stood, a pleased expression on his face. 

“Wow,” he said. “That was quick.” 

Peter shrugged and righted himself. Scaling the wall had been obnoxious but not strenuous in the slightest. If anything, slicing through the chains that kept the gate shut was the hard part. 

“All for you, my dear,” he smirked. 

Stiles chuckled and stepped inside. 

Peter shut the gate behind him. 

He looked around with his eyes wide open. The rides were all inoperable, several were worn with bits of paint missing here and there. Some were covered with tarps, but for the most part the park looked the same as it always did, minus the crowds, prizes, and food. 

Peter liked it more this way. He shut the gate behind Stiles and wrapped the chains around the pole to keep it shut. 

“What do you think?” he asked. 

“That it's kind of creepy,” Stiles admitted. “But just how I remember it. I mean, ya know, without the music, and food, and people and like,” he waved his hand in the air, “all the other stuff.” 

“Do you want to leave?”

“No,” Stiles shook his head and looked back at him. “It's weird but in a good way. It's like finding something you thought you lost.” He turned and held his hand out. “Hold hands with me?” 

Peter obliged and slid his hand into Stiles. He squeezed his fingers tight as they started their walk down the seasonally abandoned theme park.

Many of the rides creaked and groaned in the light breeze rolling off the ocean, carrying with it the scent of salt and seaweed. 

Stiles' eyes lit up when they walked past a multicolored building with the words ' _House of Mirrors_ ,' painted over the entrance. The words stood out in cool blue paint against an orange, yellow, pink, and red background. 

“I used to love that place,” he said, gesturing towards the building. 

Peter smiled softly. “That was Cora's favorite too – my niece. Derek thought it was scary, Laura wouldn't even go inside.”

“Sounds like you guys were pretty close.” 

Peter shrugged and griped Stiles' hand. “I was the best free babysitter my sister could afford, and they were my family,” his eyes turned pensive as he thought back to the distant memories of a time before he called his relatives 'estranged.' 

“I had to take Cora on all the scary rides while Derek and Laura waited outside. Cora would pout and stomp her feet whenever she wasn't tall enough to go in.” He couldn't keep the smile off his face as he thought of the way the little she-wolf would bare her fangs to any unfortunate worker that stopped her from getting on a ride or running into a haunted house. 

A pang of nostalgia hit his chest as he thought of his family.

“Do you want to go inside?” Stiles asked. Without waiting for a response he walked up to the spotted doorway. “Aw man, there's a lock. Think you could-?” 

“Break into a house of mirrors for you? Absolutely.” He made a show of flexing his muscles before stepping up to the large padlock that held the door shut. He snapped it easily with his fingers. 

Stiles applauded enthusiastically. “Oh, my hero!” 

Peter bowed again, making a show of flexing his muscles as he did. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Don't be too proud. It's those werewolf genes of yours.” 

“Stiles, that's offensive,” Peter teased. “I work hard for this beautiful body, the least you could do is appreciate it.” 

Stiles glanced at him, his eyes lingering over his pectoral muscles. “Oh, I appreciate it.” He gave a little wolf whistle as he pushed open the heavy wooden door. He cringed a little as he shoved with both hands.

He looked back. “Think you could help me out one last time, big guy?”

“Oh, if I must,” Peter said, easily forcing the heavy doors open. A light layer of dust poofed up from inside as the door swung inwards. “There we go. After you.”

Stiles nodded sheepishly and ducked underneath his arm into the room. It was a dark place. Even Peter had to squint, despite his supernaturally enhanced eyesight. 

He felt around the side of the wall for some sort of lighting. He found a row of switches and flicked the first one. A few yellow spotlights lit up. The mirrors reflected and bounced each and everyone until the entire room was visible with glowing light.

Peter tilted his head to the side and experimentally flicked on a second switch. This time dark blue lights lit up, snuffing out the yellow as it did. “Interesting,” he purred. 

“Oh no, we're not doing that,” Stiles said. He turned the blue lights off again and hit the third switch. That one lit up green. He hit the fourth, which turned the room from green to red. “No, none of these. Just the regular light.” 

“Stiles, that's so _boring_. I thought you wanted fun and excitement?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “That's how you get killed in a horror movie, Peter.  Abandoned Park, mirror house, dark lighting – it's the perfect scenario!” 

“But you have me here to protect you.” 

“What if the killer has mountain ash, huh?” 

Peter shrugged. “Then I will make sure your death is as painless as possible.”

“Oh geez, thanks,” Stiles said, but he reluctantly allowed Peter to turn the blue lights on again before they started their journey down through the house of mirrors. Behind them, they left a trail of footprints in the dust. 

“It's not quite as scary with all the dust covering everything,” Stiles said with a chuckle. “No risk of evil doppelgangers here.” He squinted into a mirror dulled by several months of built up grime. 

“What a pity,” Peter said. 

He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out at his own reflection in the curved glass. The distortion elongated his teeth into fangs, and widened his eyes into doll-like saucers that shone blue under the light. He flinched and stepped away from the mirror. 

“You alright?” Peter asked. 

“Yeah, just disoriented,” said Stiles. “Let's go find something else to do now.” 

They walked around the rest of the park for another half hour. Peter paused at the carousel, one of Laura's favorites. She always wanted the highest horse. He tried to tell her the horse would change height as soon as the ride started, but she never cared. She had to be on the high one. 

Cora would pout on the sidelines, waiting for a more 'thrilling' ride to entertain her. By that point, Derek would have contented himself with a sugary snack or beverage. 

He hopped the fence and ran his finger over one of the horse's ears. It was a pretty white and pink thing, Laura would have liked it. Even now that she was an adult and well on her way to becoming an alpha in her own right, she still held on to her love of pretty, majestic things like that. 

“You okay?” asked Stiles. He leaned against the metal railings intended to keep them out. 

“Yes,” said Peter. “Just remembering someone. I think we should-” he was cut off by the batman theme song. 

Stiles frowned and started to dig through his pockets. “Sorry, someone's calling me,” he said. “Oh, it's Erica.” 

At almost the same time Peter's own phone started to ring. He brushed back the feeling of annoyance as he pulled out his cell. Deucalion's name flashed on the screen. “My alpha is calling.”  

He accepted the call just as Stiles did the same. 

“Stiles,” he heard Erica's voice croak through Stiles cell. “Is Peter with you? Can you get him?” 

“Peter,” Deucalion's voice came from Peter's phone. In the background he could hear the sound of frantic movements, and what could have been Erica crying. “You should probably get here soon.” 

* 

Erica was waiting for them outside the clinic. Her stream of tears washed mascara down her face. Her lips trembled. She looked at Peter and Stiles and lunged at the smaller male. 

Stiles barely had time to catch her before she was burying her face in his arms. 

“Stay with her,” said Peter. “I'll be out in a minute.” 

“It was awful,” whimpered Erica. She started talking but Peter didn't stick around long enough to hear what she said. 

Peter ignored them and ran inside the building. The waiting room was completely empty. Several files from Erica's desk lay on the floor. A few chairs were overturned. A foul, unpleasant and coppery smell drifted from the exam rooms. 

He went down the hallway to the last door on the left and pushed it open, knowing exactly what he'd find there. Knowing what he'd found there several times before. It always smelled the same. 

Deucalion looked over at him. His eyes flashed alpha crimson. 

“You should probably call an ambulance,” he said. He shook his hand, a few flecks of blood spattered against the stark white of his lab coat. His claws sheathed themselves. Beside him on the floor was Ms. Montigo, her eyes wide and dead, her blue lips just slightly parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for all the nice comments and support <3


	7. Chapter 7

Peter didn't remember much of what happened after that. He remembered pulling out his phone and dialing 911. He remembered speaking to the voice on the other end. He remembered opening the front door when the ambulance arrived.

Erica and Stiles looked up from where they leaned against the wall. They tried to follow the men and women into the building but Peter pushed them back.

He shook his head.

“No, you two stay out here.”

“Is everyone okay?” Erica had chewed off a sizable chunk of the red nail polish from her fingernails. Her makeup had been wiped clean,

“No,” said Peter. “In fact, you two should probably go home.”

“Are you sure you don't need me to stay?” Stiles reached for his hand.

Peter pulled it from his grasp. He didn't feel like being touched at the moment. The little flickering distress that crossed Stiles face was enough to make him feel guilty for it.

“No, there isn't anything you can do. I'll call you when this mess is sorted out.” He patted his shoulder apologetically, but kept his tone firm and non negotiable. He didn't stick around to wait for the argument he knew would come if he gave them a chance to respond. He headed back inside and watched as the body was declared dead, and then wrapped up underneath a black sheet. They placed what remained of Ms. Montigo on a stretcher and carried her out.

Deucalion mournfully made his statement. The paramedic swabbed under his fingernails as he explained how the woman kept crying out in pain, but he couldn't find what was ailing her. He only wanted to help. He only wanted to do the right thing. His face was so sad as he told his sorry story. He let his voice hitch whenever he mentioned his client’s name, the corners of his eyes went red with suppressed tears, but Peter knew better than to let himself believe any of it was real. He just listened.

Eventually they were both escorted out of the building by the lingering police officers.

When they stepped out into the crisp night air Stiles and Erica were gone. He was a little disappointed.

“So, what really happened?” he asked as they walked towards the parking lot.

“What happened is what I _said_ happened,” Deucalion responded, flashing his crimson eyes. He kept wiping his hand against his coat as they walked, as if trying to rid himself of the blood that had already been washed away in the sink.

Deucalion got into his car, and Peter walked the rest of the lonely way back to Stiles' apartment.

*

Stiles was waiting for him at the door when he arrived. He eagerly wrapped his arms around the werewolf's shoulders and buried his face into the crook of his neck.

Peter put his arms around Stiles waist and hugged him closer.

The human flinched a little.

“You're hurting,” said Peter, sliding his hand away from the bandaged side.

Stiles shook his head. “Not nearly as bad as you must be.”

Peter didn't respond. He only moved his hand underneath Stiles hood; it was a different one than the one he'd been wearing before, although the scent of Erica lingered on his neck. For a split second he had enough emotion to feel jealous, then he steeled his heart and pushed it all away.

“What happened?” Stiles asked simply. His voice was muffled as he pressed his nose against Peter's neck. His hair was so soft against the coarse stubble of Peter's chin.

“My partner killed someone.” He reached his hand up to smooth down the brunette tufts sticking out from Stiles head.

“That's what Erica said,” Stiles looked up at him, his big brown eyes wide and far too understanding. He didn't say anything else until the drain was finished. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He didn't, he really didn't, but the words just poured from his mouth like a waterfall before he could stop them. “He just drained too much. He said he couldn't tell he was overtaking.” He moved his hand from the boys side over to the small of his back. The hand he had in Stiles hair dropped back down to his side.

“That's horrible. I'm so sorry.”

“It happens.”

“You don't sound too convinced about that.” Stiles hand tugged at his own, wordlessly urging him over to the sofa.

Peter soundlessly complied with his invitation and let himself be led into the other room. When he sat down Stiles wormed his way underneath his arm and rested his head against his chest. His eyes didn't leave his face for a second, so keen and wanting to understand.

“That woman was my client for over nine months. She had bruises on her throat, there were cut marks from where Deucalion's claws bit into her. In all the time she was my patient I never once drained from her throat, it was always the shoulder. I don't think she would have _let me_ drain from her throat.”

Stiles bristled. His pupils went wide. “You think he did it on purpose?”

Peter closed his eyes and nodded. “I'd prefer not to.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then he closed it. He closed and opened it several more times as he struggled to process what he'd heard.

Peter was just beginning to wonder if he'd made a mistake in telling Stiles his doubts, but then he finally found the strength to speak; it all came out in a rapid succession of questions.

“So what happens now? Is he going to go to jail? What will you do without him? Will you go feral? What are you going to do without your alpha?” His tension turned to fear. Stiles pressed ever closer. His brown eyes beseeched Peter's blue ones. His blunt fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt.

“No, I'm not going to go feral.” Peter said and couldn't help a smile small. With some bitterness he added, “I doubt he'll even see the inside of a courtroom.”

Stiles barely waited for him to finish before speaking up again. “How is that possible? A woman _died_.” His brows furrowed in an angry slant over his eyes. “That's murder.”

“For it to be murder there has to be intent,” Peter said. “You can't prove he intended to kill her.”

“Erica said her throat was slashed.”

“Erica was wrong. Deuc did as he was instructed and drained her pain to a point that she had no energy left to keep her heart beating. Then out of shock Deuc's claws unsheathed and dug into her throat. Some blood was drawn but that will not be the cause of death. The cause of death was her heart or lungs – maybe both – stopping.”

Peter closed his eyes. He remembered the last time Deucalion went before a disciplinary committee. He remembered the ruling, and he remembered the sympathetic looks on the other doctors faces as he pleaded before them.

He didn't believe that Deucalion would risk his livelihood for something as simple as murdering a witch.

“He'll go before a disciplinary committee, they'll review the case. I can tell you right now they won't find any reason to jail him or strike his license. What they will find is countless documents testifying that Ms. Montigo visited separate pain clinics every week at least four or five times. They will review the liability waiver that she signed before she started her session, and they will find it legally binding.”

“That doesn't sit right with me,” Stiles said. “I don't like it.”

“I know,” said Peter. He should have known to expect a strong reaction from the boy, whose own father was murdered.

“Peter?” Stiles asked. There was a waver in his voice Peter hadn't heard in a long time, not since he'd stopped shaking and sweating through the night.

“Yes, dear?” he raised a quizzical brow.

“Were you and Deucalion – were you guys _together_?”

Peter had to laugh at the sheer absurdity that image brought to his mind.

Stiles glared indignantly and moved back on the sofa. “It was just a question!”

“No,” he answered honestly. “Deuc and I were never 'together.' At one point,” he admitted, “there might have been something more there, but once we'd spent more than a few hours in each others company I realized that he was arrogant, brash, and self-absorbed. He's essentially a very clever, ill-tempered teenager, and he will always be that way.”

Stiles relaxed. “Oh, just curious.”

“Just _jealous_ ,” Peter chuckled. “I'm flattered, really.” He ran his hand through Stiles hair, from the top of his forehead all the way down to the nape of his neck. “But maybe it was an accident, he says it was. At least this means you can start coming to the clinic with me again, hm? No more sneaking around.”

Stiles rested against him. He looked up wordlessly for a few moments. “I like sneaking around with you,” he said softly.

“I like sneaking around with you too,” Peter smirked.

*

“Oh please, they'll forget about me as soon as a new scandal appears for them to gawk at. The only reason it's gone on this long is because that silly little coven is trying to milk the attention. I suppose they think they can get a nice Parisian vacation out of it,” Deucalion rolled his eyes.

They sat in the den of his expensive home in one of the more affluent parts of town. It was nice, but a little too crowded for Peter's taste, and much further away from the clinic than he would have liked.

“Or they're just mourning the death of their sister?” he offered.

“Oh, Peter,” Deucalion chuckled. “Those witches have no more of a bond than a shark and the fish that eats the rot from between its teeth. It isn't like ours, it's not a _real_ bond.” He smiled a patronizing smile, like a parent explaining why their child can't eat candy for breakfast.

Peter resisted the urge to snarl at him.

The past few days had been almost unbearable. Ms. Montigo was apparently a rather popular member of one of the local witch covens, and they had not taken her death well. They threatened curses, hexes, jinxes and the like, forgetting that their werewolf targets would be largely unaffected by most types of magic thrown in their direction.

When they realized threats would not work they ran to the media, and that was problematic for different reasons. They'd only planned to shut down for a few days at most, but now they were talking to potentially remain with their doors closed for a few weeks. It wasn't as if they needed the money, and it wouldn't be very interesting for the news crews to repeat the same loops of an empty building over and over again for their story.

“Even so,” said Peter. “They were close and they are mourning the loss of their friend.”

“Speaking of friends,” Deuc said, tilting his head slightly to the side. “How is yours?”

“Hm?” Peter raised a brow. “Oh, you mean Stiles?”

“Of course I mean Stiles.” Deuc's nostrils flared. “You still smell like him.”

Peter sighed. “He's doing well, much better, in fact.”

“Well,” the man hummed. “I suppose one scandal may as well turn into two. It's good you have someone to spend all of your time with. Are you living together now?”

“Not exactly. We spend most of our time at his place, but I still go home to mine every once in awhile.”

“Ah,” Deucalion said with a sip of his tea. “Well, congratulations then.”

His mind drifted back to the little condo on the edge of town. When he thought of home, strangely enough, that place didn't come to mind.

It happened without intent at first, subtly his things started moving over from his home to Stiles'. If he had thought about it he might have tried to transition the move from Stiles' home to his. His was bigger, nicer, and it didn't have that strange smell coming from downstairs. The boy's closet was thankfully underutilized enough that his clothing fit in without a hitch, though he berated Stiles for his overabundance of plaid and hooded sweatshirts.

When he got off work he didn't think, he just walked in the other direction until he found Stiles sitting at a coffee table halfway between the clinic and their destination.

Today, though, he just needed some time to collect his thoughts. After he bid goodbye to Deucalion he got into is car and drove to the other end of town, far from the Deuc, far from the clinic, and far from Stiles.

He unlocked the door to his apartment, forgetting momentarily that it required a code and that the key would slide easily into place instead of jamming halfway through the turn. The door pushed open without a creak and he was met with the barren cream walls that surrounded him for so many years.

It felt so impersonal. There were no pictures, only a scattering of bookshelves filled with tombs he hadn't perused since college. Everything was immaculate save for a small layer of dust formed on the tabletops. His sofas were new and unstained, but much less comfortable than the ones at Stiles apartment, he couldn't sink into the plush of the material like he could with the boy's.

Everything was monochromatic, he noted with a grimace. His room and the rest of his apartment was made up of shades of beige, cream, and a few deep reds but nothing so heavy it would stand out. Even the furniture was black and colorless.

He dropped his coat on the arm chair and went straight to the bedroom, disliking the clinical feel the room gave off.

His bedroom was hardly better. He had some pictures of his relatives on one of the end tables but they faced the other direction. His bed was neatly made, for a second he wondered where the extra blankets were before he remembered that normal people didn't have extra blankets. Normal people didn't spend their time building little nests out of cotton sheets and fluffy pillows.

_What a pitiful existence,_ he thought as he sat on the cover and swung his legs over the side of the bed, he wasn't sure who the thought was directed at, but it didn't really matter. He put his arms behind his head and just thought.

*

_I'm worried. Can we meet up?_

Stiles should have known something was wrong. He should have known that Erica was incapable of sending him a text without the inclusion of an innuendo or a not-so-subtle prying into his romantic life. He sighed and leaned his head back onto Peter's well-defined chest.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Erica said she needs me – and no, not in that way.” He fixed Peter with a firm look before the wolf could make a joke at his expense.

Peter grunted. “She can wait until morning, or at least until after the movie.”

“Actually,” Stiles said, unwillingly disentangling himself from the mess of Peter's arms. The wolf grunted his disapproval and did his best to keep his grip around him tight and unrelenting, “I think I'd better go sooner rather than later. If I stay any longer I'll just fall asleep.”

“Then you stay here, I'll go. I have the keys to open up the clinic anyways.”

Stiles shook his head. “She said she just wanted me there, I think she wants to talk about what happened with someone who's not quite so . . . . emotionally underdeveloped?”

“Ouch,” Peter said with a light chuckle. “Go then, but don't take too long.”

Another message buzzed on Stiles' cell.

_It's urgent. Could you meet me at the clinic? Please, please don't tell Peter._

He typed out a quick response and headed out the door. Something about her tone was off, but seeing a dead body only a few days prior could have that effect on anyone.

The streets were quiet and dim as he made his way towards the familiar building. From what Peter had said they would be closed for another week or so, waiting for the witches to get tired of hounding them. Stiles still wasn't okay with the situation, but it wasn't his call to make. If it were then Deucalion would be in jail already.

He shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked, awaiting another text that never came.

When he approached the clinic he found the door was already unlocked, evidenced by a small flickering light coming from inside, towards the back offices.

Stiles entered, confused when the alarm bell up above didn't go off. That should have been his second clue that things were about to go terribly, terribly awry.

“Hello?” he called out. No one answered. The door shut quietly behind him. He stepped forward, behind the reception desk and into the poorly lit hallway, the only light shining through came from the door at the end of the hall.

He continued to move closer, a tingling of fear running up his spine, but he brushed it back knowing how much Erica liked to play her games. For all he knew she was waiting around the door just itching to jump out and scare him.

He walked into the exam room. The blonde sitting in the chair was not the one he'd been hoping to see.

“Ah,” the man said, a small smile on his face. “So good of you to join me, Stiles.”

Stiles blanched. His heart stuttered. He knew this man. He knew that face.

“You,” he said. “I know you.”

“Me,” the man's eyes flashed scarlet. “You do know me, and how unfortunate that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little longer than normal. I'm back in school again so update times are unfortunately going to slow down T.T but all the nice comments keep me going <3


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured down his back. The cold, unfiltered fear gripped him and turned his legs to stone and his tongue to lead.

The man in front of him stood from the chair in a fluid, cat-like motion. The blue of his eyes bled crimson for only a moment, then he smiled and they faded back.

“I'm sorry I didn't recognize you sooner,” he said with a deceptively kind smile. “You look so much like your father. Not the same eyes or hair, but in your posture.” He continued to creep forward in a predatory advance. His voice was faintly accented.

“Th-thank you,” Stiles stuttered out, unable to help himself. His side flared in pain over the lingering wound the man's teeth had made along his flesh, many, many years ago. He could still remember the look of panic in his father's eyes as the wolf who'd mangled him turned his attention to his son, the only other witness to the crime, the only other person who had seen the man eviscerate the poor, unassuming banshee just minutes earlier in cold blood under the dim streetlights of Beacon Hills.

“I honestly didn't think you'd survive,” he hummed. “I could have sworn a child as young as you would stand no chance of withstanding the bite. You've impressed me, Stiles, just as your father did. You haven't changed either.”

“Where's Erica?” Stiles asked. He felt the wall hit his back, though he didn't remember taking any steps. He looked around the room, almost mourning his lack of werewolf senses. Erica had been the one to summon him to this place, and she was nowhere to be seen.

The man's smile flickered briefly to a scowl, but it returned just as soon as it faded.

“Teenagers have such trouble keeping tabs on their belongings, don't they?” he withdrew a shiny red object from his pocket, which Stiles recognized at once as a cell phone.

“You didn't hurt her?” he had to be certain.

“Oh of course not,” the man said. “I'm a doctor. I only want to help people.”

Stiles swallowed. “Technically, you're a certified practitioner.”

The man's smile narrowed. “Well, now you're just arguing semantics.”

“You're Deucalion.”

“I am,” the man whom Stiles had come to know as 'Deuc,' said with a small tip of his head in acknowledgment. “I, of course, know who you are. 'Stiles' Stilinski, lone survivor of the _brutal_ ripper killings back in the late nineties, not that I didn't try, of course,” Deucalion chuckled. When he laughed Stiles caught a glimpse of those shiny, white teeth that had sunk into his father's throat the night he'd died. He remembered the feel of them ripping into his own side. He remembered thinking he would die.

“Is this the part where you start to monologue about your evil plan?” he asked. He squared his shoulders and stood as straight as he could while longing to bolt from the room. That tactic hadn't worked the last time he'd been trapped in a room with this man, either.

“Well,” Deuc clicked his tongue. He tilted his head to one side. “I could just leave you in the dark, soon you and it will be very well acquainted. I suppose it doesn't matter, either way, my secrets die with you, though-”

“So Peter's not involved with this?” Stiles felt a tiny bit of relief in the back of his mind.

“No, of course not,” said Deuc. “It's very rude to interrupt people, clearly your father didn't teach you _manners_ before he-”

“You don't have the right to talk about my father,” Stiles snapped . It probably wasn't the wisest decision to piss off his captor, but he'd never been known for making smart decisions in the heat of the moment.

Deucalion laughed, immune to the anger and hate.

It made Stiles boiling blood froth over. He reached into his pocket.

Deucalion closed the distance between them in a sudden flash of movement. His fingers dug into his wrist and yanked his arm to the side with enough force his tortured muscles screamed out in a way they hadn't in months. Not since Peter.

“What do you think you're doing?” Deucalion hissed. His eyes narrowed to shining scarlet points. The tips of his ears went pointy. The teeth that flashed when he opened his mouth were sharp and ready to strike.

“Get off of me!” Stiles yelled. He used his free hand to dig into his pocket instead and rub his fingers in the small layer of mountain ash that permanently resided there. His fingers burned from touching it. At least he'd had enough common sense to know better than to leave the house unprotected. Ever since the death of his father he'd never been able to shake the feeling that the mountain ash would one day save his life.

He pulled his hand out. It was black with the dust that clung to and sent fire through his nerves. He grabbed onto Deucalion's arm as tightly as he could. He expected the wolf to scream, or screech. He expected an immediate release.

He didn't expect the wolf to grin at him. A sickly, evil grin. The hand enclosed around his wrist tightened.

Stiles gasped in pain.

“That little trick won't work on me anymore,” he said with a chuckle. His nails broke the skin.

Stiles cried out as the points shoved themselves deep underneath his skin.

“Stop!”

“Why? Afraid you'll turn?” Deuc tilted his head at him like a snake sizing up its prey, deciding whether or not it was even worthwhile to bother consuming. “Drugs and magic not working anymore, Stiles?” he taunted.

Stiles winced and let out a whine that was more pathetic than he would have liked to admit. The bite mark on his side seared with agony as Deuc's cut reignited the wolf blood that lingered in his body and refused to leave.

He pushed feebly at the man's chest as he grabbed onto his shirt and hitched it up, revealing the layer of bandage wrapped around his side. He tsk'd.

“Such a shame, to reject such a precious gift.” The hand on his wrist disappeared and went to the bandage. He ripped it off in a painfully quick and callous motion. The bite mark underneath was red, black, green, and blue. It was sickly, with dark veins leading to and from the wound. The punctures of the teeth remained the same as the day he'd been bitten, bleeding and festering, kept from turning only by the magic and mountain ash he applied every day. It hadn't looked so bad before his magic started failing.

Stiles gasped, unable to even scream as the mounting agony flooded his every nerve and muscle cell. His heart stuttered, his lungs shut down, and his eyes went blurry. It all happened so very quickly, and then he was back to his senses, shocked back by the feeling of a hand wrapping itself around his throat.

“You're in such pain, Stiles. Let me help you.”

Like a starving lamprey, Deucalion's nails dug into his throat, like a row of sharpened teeth. The pain leeched from his body in a way that wasn't painful, but intrusive. It wasn't a gentle stream flowing out of him like it was with Peter; it was a bleeding artery that refused to clog. His pain gushed outwards, but his terror remained and he felt no relief. If anything, the drain left him feeling empty and afraid.

“I do feel bad about this you know,” Deucalion said. “I meant to kill you, not leave you to suffer like that. You were just too weak to give me the strength I desired.’

Stiles glared as best he could. He gripped on tight to the hand that suffocated him. He tried to claw it away from his skin but his feeble struggles were of no avail.

Deucalion sighed. “Poor thing. You'll be better off once you're dead. You could barely keep your eyes open if Peter didn't prop them open for you. You're lucky he's so desperate for a pack mate. He'd have adopted a stray dog if that's what came crawling into our office instead of you.” He said it like it was a joke, a hint of the smile returning to his face.

Stiles fingers slipped from Deuc's wrist as his body was drained past the point of being in pain. The mild euphoria overtook his senses, but it felt so very wrong. It was like something sinister crawling underneath his skin. He realized he could still breathe, but through the fog that clouded his mind and forced his muscles into limpness the air was thick. He wanted to close his eyes. Only the crimson eyes peering down at him, like a sympathetic vet euthanizing an animal, kept him from doing so.

Deuc's head suddenly snapped to the side. It took Stiles a moment to recognize he'd heard a very loud, sharp noise. The hand on his throat released and he dropped to the ground like a ton of bricks. His muscles were like jelly, refusing to obey his commands.

“-hell are you doing?” It was Peter's voice. He stood in the doorway. His eyes went to the human on the ground. His nostrils flared. His nails unsheathed with a flick.

“Ah, Peter.” Deucalion straightened up a little. “I was just helping Stiles with his pain.”

“You were hurting him,” Peter snapped. His eyes went from blue to yellow and back again. “I could smell him.”

“Did he smell like he was hurting?” Deuc asked with a taunting inflection.

“It doesn't matter. What the hell did you do to him?” Peter took a step in Stiles direction.

Deuc snarled, a low, nasty growl. “Something I should have done the second he walked into this office.”

“Stiles hasn't done anything.”

Peter furrowed his brows in confusion. He took another step, but was stopped by another aggressive noise and the reemergence of Deucalion's claws.

“You're right, he hasn't done anything. Except _use_ you, and _lie_ to you, and _leech_ off of you.” He turned back to Stiles, his eyes still shining crimson. “Tell him.” When he opened his mouth Stiles caught a glimpse of pointed teeth.

Stiles took in another gasp of air. He looked at Peter and tried to sit up. A foot impacted his side and sent him back down again. It missed the bite mark by several inches. He cried out in pain and curled into a ball on his uninjured side.

“Jesus Christ, Deuc!” Peter shouted. He moved forward in a surge.

“Don't come closer,” Deuc snapped. The foot that knocked him over stamped down onto his ribs.

Stiles winced and whimpered, hating the miserable sound that escaped his mouth.

“Tell him,” Deuc hissed. “Tell him or I will.” The foot pressed down harder. “Tell him how you _lied_.”

“He's not lying!” Peter defended. “He's in pain! You've drained him – you know! You've seen his medical records.”

Deuc laughed. “Oh yes, I've seen them. He might be in pain but he doesn't have to be. He just likes taking advantage of gullible doctors. Isn't that right?”

Stiles eyes creaked open again. The foot pressed painfully down onto his ribs.

Peter was watching him with concern that far outweighed his confusion. His eyes were a brilliant yellow.

“No,” Stiles rasped. “I don't – I wasn't trying to take advantage of you, I just-”

“The truth, Stiles,” Deuc snapped.

“I don't have a blood disorder,” he said.

Peter's confused expression did not change.

“I'm – my body – I – It's trying to change me into a werewolf. I was using magic to stop it, but now magic isn't working. I have too much wolf blood now, I-”

“You see how he manipulated you?” Deucalion asked with the sympathetic tone of a patient father. “You see how you can't trust him? What else is he lying about, I wonder?”

“He killed my dad, Peter! He killed that woman. He's a serial ki-”

“Shut up,” Deuc snapped. Another rough kick to his side ensued.

Stiles winced and gasped for air.

Peter snarled. “Stop hurting him!”

“I will when he stops _lying_! I may have killed people, yes,” Deuc admitted. “But it was all for the benefit of our pack. It wasn't mere selfish gain, it wasn't sadism, as he would have you believe.”

Deuc's foot left Stiles' side and he was able to breathe again.

Stiles wrapped his arms tightly around himself and whimpered.

Deucalion continued to speak as if he didn't hear him. “That woman, that witch, she gave me power. She gave me the ability to resist wolfsbane. She gave me strength. She had a wonderful, beautiful life, and she did nothing with it. She cried about imaginary pains, and spent her time getting drunk, or making a ruckus. I never heard a single, positive word about her. Isn't it better that those energies she would have wasted be given to me?”

Stiles watched Deuc's face from where he lay on the floor. At no point did he look unconvinced as to what he was saying. He seemed completely convinced, a cult leader in his natural state, so self-assured that what he was doing, no matter how reprehensible, was good and just.

“I know it is hard to believe, my beta, but I am your alpha. There is no reason to distrust that what I am doing isn't for both our benefit. If I gain strength, don't you also?” his head tilted to one side, imploring the man on the other side of the room.

Throughout the small speech Peter did not move. He stayed a few feet from Stiles body, crumpled in the corner. He made eye contact with the human. His eyes flashed yellow again. His lips were set in a tight frown. His clenched fists unclenched.

“You didn't have the right to make that decision. I thought she was worthless, but that was her choice. How many others, other than the ones I already know? How many people have you killed?”

“My dad,” Stiles rasped again. “He killed him. I saw his face before it happened."

Deucalion did not acknowledge him, but Peter's eyes flickered to his body before settling back on Deuc's face.

“Is that true? Did you kill Stiles father?”

Deucalion nodded.

“I did,” he said.

Peter's hands clenched at his side. His eyes flickered to where Stiles lay crumpled on the ground again. It was only for a second that their eyes met, then he was looking back at Deuc with a hard expression.

“That was back when you and I were a newly formed pack. He wanted to stop me from protecting us, he wanted to send me to jail. He wanted to send you back to _her_ , back to your sister. Could you have stood that? Going back to Talia with your tail tucked between your legs like a rejected dog?” His tone turned suddenly spiteful.

Peter's lips lifted but not in a smile. It was a wordless growl that showed off the points of his teeth.

“You see? It's better this way. I had to kill his father, and now, regrettably, I have to kill him, too.” The cold eyes turned back on Stiles.

Stiles gasped and tried to move back but was met with another kick straight to the stomach. His breath was forced from his lungs and he wheezed.

“Wait, no, Deuc you can't-”

Deuc's head whipped back to Peter. His eyes glinted with a dangerous light. “Of course I can,” he said with deceptive calmness. “I'm the alpha.” His hands raised in the air, and with a final definitive slash they raked downwards.

*

Peter roared.

He saw Deuc raise his arm in a final, killing strike. He launched himself forward and with nails as sharp as daggers dug them into his alpha's chest. Through the beta-yellow that colored his vision he felt the shirt and skin tear. He felt the warm wetness of blood spilling down his fingers.

Deucalion snarled and shoved him away. The blow forced him back from the human's body, but it didn't cause quite as much damage as Peter would have liked.

“We can't let him live,” Deucalion hissed. “Don't you get that? He's going to tell. He doesn't care about you. He cares about manipulating you. He just wants you to be his painkiller. He doesn't love you anymore than your sister did. No one loves you. No one cares about you. Only _I_ do. I am all you have!”

He turned to Stiles again, this time the claws hit their intended mark. 

Stiles started and a rush of air escaped his throat as the skin was slashed. It poured out, bright and shining, onto the cold tiled floors of the clinic. His big brown eyes went wide and shocked. His hand reached up to grasp at his own throat. A trickle of blood ran through his fingers as he gasped.

For a second Peter just stood there, feeling betrayal deep in his chest. He struggled internally. He looked to Deuc, to his alpha, to the one he was supposed to trust.

Deuc glowered at Stiles. He wiped the remaining blood off his claws onto the wall beside him. It left a sickening streak as the read smeared down the side.

The copper scent of blood hung heavy in the air.

Deucalion tsk'd.

“Deuc?” questioned Peter. He took a step forward. The alpha must have said something back as he turned to look at him, but all he could hear was Stiles weak heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“-This was hard for you,” Deuc said with the slow and calm tone he used on his patients. “It was good, though. I know you like him, but he isn't pack. I'm so sorry to have taken him from you, but he wasn't good for you. He wasn't good for us. We are a family, Peter.”

Peter closed his eyes, focusing on Stiles raspy breaths and his rabbit heartbeat. “Talia was my family.”

He opened his eyes. He could feel the hate and rage welling up in his chest, stronger than anything he'd ever felt. Even when he hated Talia, he didn't _hate her_ , not like this. He never felt the desire to burn her in her bed, or pull her heart from her still beating chest.

He lashed out before he could think. His claws extended. They slashed and ripped. He heard a gasp that wasn't from Stiles.

Deuc's eyes went red.

Peter felt something sharp dig into his own skin. He saw a flash of claws towards his face and avoided it. He slashed again, and again, and again. He didn't even realize he was roaring as he did it. He didn't realize at some point they had ended up on the ground. He didn't feel the many stab wounds along his chest or sides, but he knew they were there from the blood that dampened his clothes.

Underneath him, Deucalion shouted and roared and growled and snarled. He thrashed and fought. His struggles grew weaker the more Peter felt his claws tearing in. He heard nothing but the ripping of clothes and cries from Deucalion.

He only stopped digging in when he felt no more movements and heard the only sound that mattered to him.

His head jerked to the source of the noise.

Stiles was still laying on the floor, gasping with his throat held together by his hands clenched tight around the wound.

Peter immediately got off of Deuc. He rushed towards Stiles and carefully pulled him closer.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Stiles grimaced. He gave a slight shake of his head. His eyes were going dim, just like Ms. Mont's had, just like Deuc's had done.

Peter felt Stiles forehead.

He was cold, so very, very cold. His throat and hands were soaked now. The color of his red hood was stained and sticky with the liquid that dripped onto his chest. “It's okay now, it's okay, Stiles. Let your body turn, just let it happen and you'll be okay.” He brushed his fingers through the boy's hair as he talked.

“C-c-can't,” Stiles gasped out. He winced as he spoke.

“Yes, yes you can. It's okay. Do it now. Let go of whatever magic you're holding onto. Just let it happen. Stiles, please.”

Stiles opened his mouth again but the only sound was gurgling and pained. His eyes started to fade. His head went limp in his hands. His fingers started to release and relax.

“No, no no no. Don't do that. Do not do that. Stiles, c'mon,” Peter growled. His first thought was to shake him, but he didn't want to aggravate the already horrific wound. “Oh, fuck,” he snapped. He clasped his fingers around Stiles icy hand and started to drain, but there was no pain to be found. It terrified him.

“Stiles,” he growled again. “ _C'mon_. Breathe. Do something.”

For a second the pained expression changed on Stiles face.

“Red,” was the only audible word that uttered from his lips.

“What?” Peter asked with a furrowed brow. He looked back towards Deucalion, who still lay prone on the floor behind them. In the reflection of the metal table he saw flashes of red. At first, he mistook them for blood spatter, but then realized they were his own eyes. In killing Deucalion it hadn't even occurred to him that he would no longer be a beta. The realization came as a bittersweet revelation.

“I don't care,” he said, looking back at Stiles who could no longer keep his own eyes open. The lids drifted shut over the sweet brown eyes he'd come to adore.

“Stiles?” he squeezed his hand tighter. The heartbeat he'd been clinging to started to fade. Without conscious effort, he repeatedly tried to drain Stiles of any pain that might linger, but he could find none. _You can't even run home now._

Peter hated it. All his life he'd wanted to be an alpha in his own right, and now he'd achieved it by killing his best friend, and letting Stiles life slip from his hands.

He knew what he had to do, and it was the easiest decision of his life.


	9. Chapter 9

The police riddled Peter with questions and accusations for a solid two hours before he was finally allowed to leave. They kept him in a room just off the hospital waiting area. They wanted to know why he was in the clinic, how he'd known Stiles was in danger, why Deucalion had done what he'd done, and why the man now lay dead.

At last they were satisfied with his answers and let him go. Peter didn’t even bother asking a nurse where Stiles was. He followed his nose through the halls and corridors at a quick pace until he came to a room on the third floor. A single body lay on the bed inside.

Stiles eyes were still closed. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He wasn't in pain.

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter said quietly. He cupped his hand underneath Stiles chin and turned his head to the side so he could get a better look at him.

His skin was unnaturally warm, like a werewolf. In his sleep the boy mumbled something inaudible.

“Excuse me,” a firm but not unkind voice asked from behind him.

Peter narrowed his gaze. He didn't want to be interrupted. If it was those damned police officers again he would barricade the doors and refuse to leave until his Stiles woke up again.

“What?”

“I don't think you're a relative of this man.”

Peter turned, his eyes flashing the warm yellow of a beta.

A man with dark eyes and a bald head stood in the doorway. His eyes were dark and solemn. He cast his glance over Stiles prone figure.

“Who are you?” he demanded to know.

“I am Deaton,” Peter lied easily, recalling the name of Stiles guardian.

The man’s lips curled. “Then we share the same name. Who are you, really?”

Peter was at a loss. His brain was too short-circuited from speaking with the officers to come up with anything else, so he settled for the truth. In the back of his mind he imagined how satisfying it would be to punch this man in the face for abandoning Stiles.

“Peter,” he said curtly. “I’m his pack mate.” He placed a protective hand on the still slumbering Stiles’s shoulder.

“His pack mate?” the man repeated with a quirked brow. He said the words almost to himself.

Peter nodded. “More so than you will ever be.”

He kept his tone cold as he spoke, letting the man know just how he felt. This person whom should have been taking care of Stiles, and instead left him to wither away in an empty apartment.

“I’m sensing some hostility,” Deaton said, as equally unaffected.

“Some?” Peter scoffed. “Why are you even here?”

“Stiles is my responsibility. I am here to make sure he’s okay.”

“Your responsibility? You weren’t so concerned with being responsible for him when he was dying from a bite wound in his apartment building.”

Deaton’s expression was unreadable. “He wouldn’t have died. The bite was being managed. I had more pressing concerns-”

“You had _no_ concern,” Peter snapped. “You and his supposed friend abandoned him.

Deaton stiffened. His eyes didn't turn away, but he took a tiny, subtle step back. “If he needed me he could have called.”

“He shouldn’t have had to. You should have known he was in pain. He didn’t need magic or medicine, he needed a family.” Peter let his eyes bleed yellow and lifted his lips in a wordless snarl. Then he turned away. The man was not worth any more of his time. He focused instead on Stiles' face.

“How did this happen?” Deaton asked quietly after several long minutes had passed. Peter had almost forgotten he was even there. Almost.

He gripped onto Stiles' hand that lightly dangled over the side of the bed to regain his composure. As he thumbed over the man's warm palm he said, “My partner – my former partner attacked him. Apparently, he found a way to absorb the powers of others. He'd been killing people for a long time, sapping their strength, their intelligence. He learned how to drain a lot more than their pain. He was doing it for years.”

He could feel the dark eyes drinking in his every word and minute expression. He wondered if the man had the same natural talent for sensing deceit.

“Why Stiles?”

Peter hesitated. When the police had asked it was easy to spill the words he knew were true, but that had been in the rush of the moment and his eagerness to get back to Stiles, to see that he was okay for himself. It was much harder now that he had to listen to his own words.

“Stiles' father was one of his first victims. I guess Deuc assumed that Stiles would remember what happened and turn him in.”

In the periphery of his vision he saw Deaton nod. “That would make sense. I appreciate you telling me all of this.”

“I’m only letting you know so that you’ll understand – if you had been taking care of him this may not have happened. His father died by my partners claws, and he would have died too, if I hadn’t given up my spark to heal him. If you’d just let nature take it’s course he wouldn’t have been in such poor condition.”

“If you want to think I’m a monster,” Deaton said, more emotion in his voice than he’d heard so far, “then do so. I tried to help Stiles, but he didn’t want to be a wolf. I offered to let him come with me and Scott when we left, but he refused. It was always his choice.”

“Then you should have accepted his choice and stayed with him. Speaking of, where is this ‘Scott’ person?”

“He’s still undergoing training. I told him I would check on Stiles for-“

“Well you checked on him. Is there anything else you need?”

Deaton hesitated. He lingered in the doorway for another ten minutes, then quietly left without a word, leaving Peter behind to wait for Stiles to awaken by himself.

As he waited a creeping anxiousness overtook him. Stiles was no longer injured. He wasn't dependent, or in pain. His new werewolf body would heal his wounds and soothe his discomforts. He had no need for Peter anymore.

For several hours he just watched as Stiles' chest rose and fell. Sometimes his brows would furrow and it looked like he might awaken, but he never did. He just kept slumbering on until the gloomy night sky turned to pink and periwinkle.

*

“Oh god,” Stiles groaned. “I thought being a werewolf was supposed to fix physical illness. I feel like absolute shit.”

Peter chuckled and ran his hand over Stiles head. “Not everything,” he admitted. “Some physical injuries take longer to heal. You’ll probably have a bit of a scar.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose in displeasure. “So, even as a werewolf I have to be in pain?”

Peter shrugged. “Sometimes, but at least now you won’t need to worry about passing out at bus stops.”

Stiles sat up a little. He started to shake his head but was stopped by a cringe.

“Yeah but,” he started to say, “wait, before I – back at the clinic you had red eyes. Are you an alpha now? Did you take it from Deuc?”

Peter felt a knot in his chest. “No,” he said solemnly. “It was the only thing I could do to save you. I had to gave it up. You did a good job of wrecking your own body, you know that?”

Stiles furrowed his brows. His eyes darkened. “Good job to you too, you’ve basically doomed us both. Now we’re both going to die.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” Peter raised a brow.

“Because we’re ferals, Peter. You don’t have a family, and neither do I. We’re going to die. At least we can go crazy together.” He rolled his eyes and slumped back down against the pillow with a huff.

“. . . You’re an idiot,” Peter snapped. “We’re not going to go feral, dumb ass. I’ll just call my sister.”

“Will she accept us?” Stiles asked.

“Of course she will. I’ll have to swallow down my pride,” he couldn’t keep the distaste from his voice, “but she will accept us, and I’m sure they’ll all _adore_ you.”

He could already see Derek excitedly planning how to train their new pack-mate in all things werewolf. Cora would undoubtedly want to run with him, and Laura would try to remain diplomatic, all the while internally squealing at their new family member. Talia would be the worst, she’d probably insist on making him a Hale family sweater. His biggest concern was hoping all the excitement didn’t overwhelm him.

Stiles looked at him skeptically. “If you insist.”

*

“I can see why you ran away,” Stiles said as he pounced onto the large bed.

He'd spent at least several hours marveling over how huge the entirety of the Hale house was. Each room was furnished with a large bed, writing desk, and massive closet space. A single one could have comfortably housed Stiles tiny apartment back home. “Your family is awful. Absolutely dreadful. Such horrendous people. Laura made me muffins.”

“What a witch,” said Peter. At Stiles insistent tug he turned away from his computer and allowed the newly turned werewolf to worm his way under his arm. “Did you have fun?”

“Oh yeah, for sure. Cora, Derek, and I went and looked at all the good trees to sniff.”

“I wanted to show you the good sniffing trees,” Peter mockingly bemoaned the loss.

Stiles winked.

“You still get the first full moon with me. For some reason, I don't think it'll be that eventful.” His smiling face turned for a moment into a frown. He attempted to flick his claws out, but nothing came.

“You'll get the hang of it soon,” Peter promised.

“No, seriously. What if nothing happens? You said most new wolves have trouble controlling their shifts – I can barely shift at all! The best I can manage is a few pointed teeth and some flashing eyes.”

“Well, I guess you're just not that much of a predator.” Peter brought his free arm to settle around Stiles waist. He hugged him close and rested his face against the other mans. “We should feel lucky you aren't going to spend your full moons as a sheep.”

The remark brought a smile back to Stiles anxious face. “Wouldn't that be awful? Terrorizing the neighbors lawns once a month instead of their pets.”

“You'd be comfortable to sleep on, at least. All that nice, soft, wool.”

“Oh yeah, that's exactly what I need.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Cora keeps trying to 'trigger my instincts,' by jumping out at me from behind trees. If I were still capable of it I'd already have had three heart attacks by now.”

“Do you want me to ask her to stop?” Peter asked. He stilled his hands and looked down at Stiles seriously. He knew his family, and he knew just how overwhelming they could be.

Stiles scowl softened. He shook his head.

“No, I kind of like it.”

“You like being assaulted by my volatile niece?” Peter raised a brow.

“No,” said Stiles. “I like …” he struggled for a few minutes with his words. “I like having a _family_. I like having stupid, pointless, family fights about nothing. If you said something they'd all stop doing those stupid, annoying things that I like.”

Stiles looked up at Peter with a bright grin on his face. His doe-brown eyes glittered with appreciation and a liveliness he hadn't possessed before moving in with the wolf pack. He was happier now than when he had ever been.

“If that's what you want,” Peter said. “Just to clarify, you aren't here just for them, correct?”

“Yes,” said Stiles seriously. “I am here just for them. Not you, the patient werewolf who has comforted me, and cuddled me, and literally saved my life, just them.” He motioned towards the door where the sounds of the rest of the family echoed from the kitchen.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You’re an ass, you know that?” 

“I do,” Stiles said. “Does that make me a Hale?”

Peter grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the patience and all the wonderful comments n.n


End file.
